


The Man in the Diary

by Reneehart



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Harry's horcrux is a tad more responsive, Horror, I swear its a romance, Just when both are of age, M/M, Possessive Tom Riddle, Slow Burn, Tom Riddle's Diary, Tom learns to love, canonical child abuse and neglect, diary!Tom Riddle, eventual Tom/Harry, horcrux!Tom Riddle, not a fluffy story
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-12
Updated: 2018-09-10
Packaged: 2018-10-31 03:21:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 67,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10890636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reneehart/pseuds/Reneehart
Summary: Harry pulls the diary from Ginny's cauldron after having seen Malfoy slip it inside. What begins as a friendship with a kind man trapped inside a book turns into a story of obsession as Tom Riddle seeks to protect his horcrux and Lord Voldemort returns to find his throne threatened by none other than himself.





	1. The Diary, A Promise, and a Lie

It was something so simple. Something so unassuming, so innocent seeming. It was just a book after all, and what harm could ever come from a book?

Of course, harm could come from a book, in the form of tears spared at the death of a beloved character, sleepless nights spent hunched over a novel with only a dim, singular light for comfort. But it was never real harm, nothing that followed you when you closed the book and set it back on your shelf, ready to continue about your day. 

But this book...

It was different.

It was dangerous.

It hummed with energy, with magic that Harry did not know- he was not familiar with it but knew without knowing how he did that it was dark. Terribly dark. And he could feel it pulse out to him in waves, feel his stomach twist and a dull ache settle behind his right eye as fingertips grazed over the leather bound journal. It was soft, the leather worn and pages yellow but it was in well enough condition. At the very bottom of it, embossed in golden lettering was the name T.M. Riddle. 

He did not know who that was, or why Lucius Malfoy had had it in his possession and felt it appropriate to drop it within Ginny's cauldron. But Harry had not trusted it in the slightest, fingers plucking it from her small collection of texts when she wasn't looking and hiding it in his own, promising to investigate it further, when it was later in the evening.

And it was later- several evenings later to be exact, and he sat on his bed in the Gryffindor dormitories, the thick, crimson curtains drawn and the journal settled in his lap. An index finger traced over the printed letters, the sharp turns of the T and the M, the rounded bellies of the R and the D's. It was as if a syringe had been placed to the tip of his finger, injecting something into his veins that made his arm itch and burn as it coursed through him- venom, acid, or something euphoric. 

He opened it, the heel of his palm smoothing down the center of it to flatten it and keep it splayed open. The pages smelt crisp, ancient, like dust and the less frequented corner of a library. He reached for his quill, unscrewing a bottle of ink and settling it on his knee, dipping the brass tip of the quill into the black well. He brought it to the right hand page, hesitating for a moment as he chewed his lip.

What had he intended to do, exactly?

If Malfoy had slipped the diary to Ginny, it had to be for a purpose. And what purpose was it? What was it capable of? It was just a book. A blank one at that. 

A bead of ink fell from the quill, landing on the page and splattering against it, specks of black dotted randomly throughout. It glinted, the gloss drying down rather quickly, when a curious thing happened. Of course, many a curious thing happened in Harry's life, ever since his eleventh birthday, beginning with a flurry of letters with red stamps raining from the sky. Though curiosity was commonplace long before then, if he was being honest. Snakes slipping from once enclosed cages, hair regrowing overnight. 

But this was curious in particular in that the ink seemed to disappear into the paper- saturating the yellow pages until there was nothing left but blank space. And surely that was odd, even in the magical world. After all, what was the purpose of a blank book if all writing on it vanished?

Before he could ponder the thought any further, words appeared before him, curling, elegant script.

Hello?

-xXx-

Tom Marvolo Riddle was who the journal had belonged to, and there was something about the name that did not quite settle in Harry's mouth. It was metal on his tongue, it was a twinge behind his eye. He did not know why a man existed within the slightly too stiff pages, and he had thought to ask Hermione of it but decided against it. She was oddly suspicious of things, and surely a diary that wrote back to him would be cause enough for her to alert McGonagall. Dumbledore even.

And there was no sense in bothering the headmaster with something so silly. It was just a book.

'I was trapped in the pages of this diary long ago,' Tom had explained at Harry's prompting. 'The effects of a spell I used that had not gone as planned.'

'But what is it like in there? How can someone exist in a diary?' Harry asked, his own words looking sloppy, hasty against the fading calligraphy. But they disappeared soon enough, replaced with Tom's own answer.

'I am left with nothing but memories. Empty rooms and empty halls from my life before I was locked within this book.'

Harry frowned at that. That sounded awful! He couldn't imagine what that might be like- spending eternity with nothing but the paths he once walked, rooms he had familiarized himself with enough to recall them in imprisonment. No Ron or Hermione, no Hedwig or Hagrid. Nothing at all except his own meager supply of memories. Worse than that, what if it wasn't even Hogwarts at all laid out before him? What if he was trapped within the home on Privet Drive, stuck within the suffocating walls of his cupboard beneath the stairs, not even the spiders for company?

'What spell did you use? Maybe there's a way to undo it.' After a moment, he added, 'I can ask Dumbledore. He might know.'

The words came back faster, a bit spikier this time as if Tom was rushed. 'No, it was a spell of my own creation, and as such, it is impossible for anyone but myself to undo. I am just happy to have someone to talk to. Tell me about yourself, Harry.'

Harry blinked owlishly, a hand reaching up to slide the glasses back up his nose. No one had ever really asked him to talk about himself. Either no one cared, believing he was the disturbed delinquent nephew of Vernon and Petunia Dursley, and as such, nothing he had to say was of any worth, or they already knew everything there was to know about Harry Potter. More than even he knew of himself. 

He didn't even know where to begin, exactly. His family, or rather, lack there of? Or perhaps that was too personal, too intimate to share with a book. School? Tom was a wizard himself- or had been- and surely they would have something of common ground? A favorite subject shared between them, complaints about particularly challenging studies? 

A question from Tom settled the discourse for him. 'You said you're a Potter? Any relation to Fleamont Potter?'

Harry shifted in his bed, spine straightening in interest. Fleamont Potter? The name bore no meaning to him- the only Potter he knew was his father, James- but Tom seemed to know. Had he known his family from his own time? Wasting no time, he scrawled back, 'I'm not sure. My parents died when I was young, and I was raised by my aunt and uncle who were muggles. My father was James Potter. Did you know him?'

'I'm afraid not, and I'm sorry for your loss. I don't have parents either.'

And even as he was filled with disappointment at having nothing more of his parents than some photographs, he was filled with something else. Something thrilling. It was strange, Harry thought, the source of comfort that came from shared tragedy. The way your shoulders slumped, you exhaled deeply, when you learned you were not alone in this world. That others knew your pain, the absence that came with having no proper family to speak of. And perhaps it was rude, but in his excitement- the longing reach to a kindred spirit- he glossed over Tom's own admission of loss, adding, 'My parents were killed by a dark wizard. You probably don't know him, I don't think he was around in your time. Lord Voldemort- have you heard of him?'

His heartbeat pulsed out of rhythm. 

A snore disrupted the silence. 

He worried if he had offended Tom, if he should have offered comfort as well instead of losing himself in the desire to share with a fellow orphan- someone who knew what it meant to have no mother to tuck you in, no father to ruffle your hair.

He brought his quill to the page, ready to right an apology, when Tom wrote back. 'No, I haven't. Dark wizard you say? How terrible. I could never imagine something so awful. Would you like to talk about it?'

-xXx-

Harry decided he liked speaking with Tom. He was smart and kind, and he seemed to understand Harry in a way that Ron or Hermione could not. He was an orphan as well, raised in the muggle world until he was eleven and learned of his true identity, that there was an entire world hidden below him. A delightful world, vibrant and technicolor, full of life and energy and wonder and literal magic. The muggle world was not like that. The muggle world was grim, dull. Monochromatic, several shades of gray and beige and nothing more. 

He carried the journal with him, bending the front cover backwards so as to keep it small and hidden on his lap, and he wondered how Hermione might admonish him if she saw him treat a book in such a way. But she never noticed him scribbling away, he never intended to tell her. 

Tom would help him in his studies, explaining things that had not made sense in class and putting them into words that he could grasp onto, fingers curling triumphantly around the concepts. But he never supplied the answers, instead forcing Harry to come to the conclusion on his own. 

'You'll get nowhere if I just tell you what to do. You need to understand it yourself. You could be a great wizard, and it would be a shame to waste it all because it was easier to tell than to teach,' he would explain, making Harry blush at the praise. Everyone assured him he was a great wizard- he had to be after all, he defeated Lord Voldemort when he was only a baby. But the words seemed genuine coming from Tom- he was not handing him praise, cooing him with it. He was simply holding them above him, like a goal to be reached. 

Because Harry wasn't a great wizard, really. He was lucky. He had survived a terrible thing; a terrible thing that had claimed the lives of many an actual great witch or wizard before him. That was all. He had no memory of the event that earned him the taunting moniker, and he was not the smartest boy in his class. Far from it. He was decent on a broom, but that was hardly the marker of someone great. 

Tom had to have been a great wizard when he was alive. Perhaps he still was alive, though. Not quite dead, not quite living. Caught on some unfathomable plane in between, trapped in something flat and two dimensional. 

There wasn't a subject that Tom did not seem to know of. There wasn't a spell that he couldn't do, a potion he couldn't make. Harry was in awe of his brilliance, really, and he thought it quite a shame that someone with so much potential- someone who could have done some truly remarkable things for the world- had been removed from it. He had considered bringing the journal to Dumbledore once more, in an attempt to free him from the confines of it. But Tom assured him it would be useless.

'Besides,' Tom wrote, in his looping and neat script, 'I think I may have found a way to reverse the spell. But I will need your help, Harry. Can you promise me you'll help?'

-xXx-

Of course Harry agreed to help Tom, the words scribbled earnestly back before he had even realized he was writing. Though Tom wouldn't need his help right away, he was still researching his options, he had explained. And so they continued to speak, of nothing and everything and all the things in between.

There was a pleasant hum surrounding him, muffling the world and reality away as Harry sat with the journal propped on his thighs, back against the rough textured tree. His head felt heavy, but not in weighted, dreadful way. Like the sort of heaviness that befalls you right as your about to sleep after a particularly exhausting day, reality distorting into the nonsensical worlds of dreams. 

His dreams had been a tad funny, as well. Blurs of things not remembered, things that could not have possibly existed in his own mind. Of a stern faced and frightened woman, of tides crashing against jagged rocks of a deep and dark cavern. 

But dreams were always funny, and he thought nothing of it. Sometimes he even shared the dreams with Tom.

'I was in a cave and a bunch of snakes slithered out from the rocks and crevices, winding around rib cages and other bones. But they weren't scary, they just wanted a chat. It was sort of funny. I think they were lonely.'

'Snakes can get lonely, too.'

'I know. I met one once, at the zoo with my cousin. He told me he was lonely, and I let him out. My cousin fell into the enclosure-'

Tom wrote back before Harry could even finish the story. 'This was a dream?'

'No, it wasn't.'

-xXx-

'Tell me about the night your parents died, Harry,' Tom wrote, and Harry settled back against the propped up pillows of his bed, skewing his lips in thought. He had never told Tom everything about that night, only that he had been young and both his mother and father were killed by the dark wizard. Some called him You-Know-Who. Others He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Harry told him he thought such names were ridiculous, that he was just a wizard- not a monster or a boogeyman. Tom had told him that it was possible for those things to be synonymous, that sometimes the most terrifying monsters are the men and women you pass on the streets. 

But that was it. He had not told him that he himself was meant to die. That he had a terrible scar on the right side of his head; like he was porcelain doll, dropped once and fractured with little white fissures cracked permanently into him. He had liked that Tom didn't treat him like a celebrity, a pariah. He liked that he spoke with him because he wanted to, not simply because he had become a modern day myth and he wanted the opportunity to speak with the great Harry Potter.

But they were friends, he supposed. Tentative friends- as much as someone could be a friend with someone when they existed as nothing more than vanishing black text against yellowed paper. It was November now, and they had been speaking for a little more than two months- surely if now was not the time to divulge such secrets, there would never come a time.

And so he shared it with him, a dissonant and perturbing whistling sound filling his head all the while, itching at the back of his brain. He told him how Voldemort had supposedly died that night, that his own curse had rebounded off Harry and struck him. That his parents were dead, and he had nothing to show for it except a distinct scar. That his aunt and uncle reviled him, that he had been made to sleep within a cupboard for most of his young life, having nightmares within the small space of bright, green flashes of light, a woman screaming his name, and motorcycles flying through the air. He was a hero in the Wizarding World, but 'the boy' in his own muggle home. That he thought it very funny when he freed the large snake and trapped Dudley inside the enclosure. 

Tom did not respond for quite some time, and Harry chewed his lips, worried that he had done something wrong. The whistling was growing louder, and he palmed his ear, pressing it tight against it and releasing it in the hopes that the pressure might stop the sound. But it did not, and it continued to ring achingly against his skull.

When Tom wrote back, his words were curt. Short and too the point, and Harry wondered if he had upset him. For some reason, the thought of such a thing was devastating. He did not want to upset Tom.

'Harry, I'm sorry to leave like this, but I think I need to do some more research.'

He did not write back for about two weeks.

-xXx-

Harry knew Tom had finally written him, though he did not know how he did. It was as if it were a premonition, a tingling within his brain that let him know that there would be words inscribed for him when he opened the journal. And perhaps it was because it had been so long since he spoke with the wizard, perhaps it was because he was growing more and more agitated as the week progressed, snapping out for the smallest slight against him. Perhaps it was all the reasons, or none of them, but he excused himself from class- feigning an illness and threatening to vomit everywhere should he not be allowed to head to the infirmary- and ducked within the nearest empty classroom, opening the diary eagerly with his back pressed against the door.

'Terribly sorry for my absence, Harry. I hope you are doing well. But I've made great strides in my research.'

Harry fumbled in his bag for a quill and bottled ink, fingers trembling as he assembled them and put the brass tip against paper. 'That's good. Do you still need my help?' He wanted to help Tom, needed to, he felt. Something ached within his chest, his heart pulsed erratically and harsh against his sternum. It was strange, and had he not felt so clouded, so ill to begin with, he might have sought out help, realized that he was not well, not in the slightest.

'Yes, in time. Until then, I'd like to meet you, Harry. Would you like to meet me?'

Harry licked his lips, blinked once, twice at the words. Of course he would. He had been corresponding with him for what felt like years, finding him as easy to talk to as if he was a long ago friend, forgotten by nothing more than time and distance. But it was impossible. Least, impossible until Tom could put his research to good use. 

When he did not write back promptly enough, Tom added, 'It won't hurt, and you'll be back before you're missed.'

He narrowed his eyes at that, frowning at the vague, enigmatic words. What did he mean? Before he could ponder it any further, the words begin to glow, shifting in color from black to glittering gold, the diary vibrating in his hands and becoming hot to the touch. He dropped it to the ground, shuffling to his feet. He thought to run away from it, that perhaps it wasn't a simple book after all, but there was a pull from behind his navel, a great tug and it was if he had jumped into a lake, the water warm from the sun and seeping into him. Dragging him further and further into its void.

The sensation dimmed, his feet once more landing on solid ground, and he lifted his head to find that he had been transported. 

Where was once an empty classroom, desks and chairs neatly pushed aside, was now the library. Or rather, a version of the library. It was nebulous and gray, dull. Like he was viewing it from behind a thick black veil, the gossamer fabric distorting the shelves and books and making them appear nothing more than the phantom traces of a forgotten memory. 

It was empty, a terribly disconcerting thing since it had been well into the day and the library should have been full of studying students, heads bowed over parchment and tomes. There was something awful about places that should have been full with life, suddenly absent of it.

“Harry?”

He twisted around at the voice, hands sinking into pockets, patting around the fabric in an attempt to find his wand. It wasn't there, and something sunk into the pit of his belly, heavy and weighted. Where was his wand? He had had it when he left the classroom!

“You can't do magic here, you needn't have a wand,” the voice spoke again, softly and sympathetic sounded, legs of a chair screeching across marble floors. Harry looked up, blinking at the sight of a wizard- only a few years older than himself, but much taller. He was impossibly sharp and clear against the distorted library, a very real, concise thing against a world of nothingness. 

It was Tom Riddle, and he was incredibly handsome, with dark, luxurious hair that was combed neatly in place, a swooping curl over his brow. His face was angular, with sharp and high cheekbones that cast shadows over the hollows of his cheeks. Everything about him was perfect, like marble statues he had only seen in pictures, depictions of Roman Gods with slim noses and sinewy muscles. 

He felt much smaller in his presence, diminutive in every sense of the word as Tom practically towered over him, gazing at him with a curious, intense look in his dark blue eyes. It made him swallow, made the incessant ringing in his ear grow thrice as loud. It was not an unkind look, the exact opposite really, but it was the sort of look one had when they knew something that they weren't quite ready to divulge.

“Tom? How...” Harry choked out, brows furrowing as he glanced about him, at the insubstantial bookshelves. He might have been relatively new to the magical world, but he was certain that books weren't supposed to consume you.

They weren't really supposed to talk back either, but he shoved the thought away. His head was beginning to ache, the twinge behind his right eye turning into a sharp pain.

“Don't worry, you'll not be here for long,” Tom assured him in a quiet, placating tone as he reached outward. Fingers brushed over Harry's forehead, pushing aside the hair to reveal the jagged lines of his scar, like the traces of a lightning bolt sinking into the soft earth. He shifted under the appraisal, tipping his head back so that the hand fell away and his dark hair was left to stick up in an awkward angle. He patted it down. 

“That doesn't explain how you got me in here,” he asserted, something within his stomach coiling intensely. Perhaps he had made a terrible mistake, trusting Tom. He should have marched to Dumbledore's office the moment the thought first crept into his head, should have sought out the help of someone much wiser. What if he never got out? What if he was trapped here for eternity, stuck within the nonexistent world that quivered in and out of focus, as if someone had wiped a dirty rag over it all?

A hand settled on his shoulder, and his chin whipped upward to meet Tom's soft, friendly gaze, his lips raised in a small smile. “Harry, relax. It's just magic is all. Surely, this isn't the strangest thing to happen to you?”

No, honestly, it really wasn't. He hardly even knew what was considered odd in the magical world, so skewed was the absurdity of it all. People lived within the pages of books, the brushstrokes of paint, and who was he to know which of it was meant to be that way?

Harry chewed his lip. “So, I'm not trapped here, then?”

Tom frowned. “No, just me. You can come and go as you please.”

He swallowed, thickly, like he had something lodged within his throat. “I'd like to go, then,” he asked. It wasn't out of fear- in fact, he hardly felt any fear at all. He was terribly intrigued by it all, and what he really wanted to was lob questions at Tom, to speak with the man- properly speak- about anything and everything, from the subjects they had discussed prior to all the ones left untouched. 

He wasn't afraid, he just wanted to leave to make sure that he could. 

He thought he saw Tom's jaw clench, his eyes flash from blue to something else entirely, something dark, but it must have been a trick of the light. Or perhaps he had blinked, distorting the image of Tom before him, because he looked just as pleasant and kind as he had from the few minutes he stood before him in the library. Tom nodded his head, smiling as he waved a hand through the air. “Well then, until next time, Harry.”

Something pulled behind his navel.

He was submerged in water once more.

And within seconds, he was back in the empty classroom, blinking at the edges of his world which suddenly seemed too sharp, too clean. The colors too bright and saturated.

The journal was on the floor before him, Tom's final words to him disappearing.

'Until next time, Harry.'

-xXx-

“Do you think it's possible to be drawn into a book?” Harry asked, attempting to sound casual about the question, fingers thrumming over the table. He had not written back to Tom since he had been consumed and then spat out by the diary, though his heart always seemed to skip a beat whenever Tom attempted to reach out to him, his veins and capillaries pulsing with the sensation as ink sank into paper.

Hermione huffed. “Is that a joke? Of course you can get drawn into a book, why do you think people read in the-”

“No, I mean literally. Like the book sucks you in?”

She looked at him, her eyes narrowed, lips pursed. “No, absolutely not. Why would you ask such a thing?”

He felt that he should tell her. That he should tell somebody. But the words died on his lips, his tongue unable to meet the roof of his mouth, press against his teeth to make the sounds that became syllables which became words. He needed to tell someone, but he needed to protect Tom more. 

He shrugged. “No reason.”

-xXx-

His face was hot, fevered, and he could taste blood, tinny and vinegar in his mouth, from where his teeth dug too deeply into the soft flesh of his cheeks. Fingers curled into his palm, nails digging into skin, and his hands shook, knuckles turning white. 

It wasn't fair. He had been trying to help Justin. Why on earth would he tell a snake to attack him? He was telling the snake to stop. To leave him alone. But of course, no one listened to him, rumors spreading around the school faster than a fiendfyre, talking of how Harry Potter was a parselmouth. That Harry Potter was surely not to be trusted. After all, no good or respectable witch or wizard spoke to snakes.

It wasn't fair. 

Even Ron had looked at him with uncertainty, as if seeing him for the first time. He hated it all, the way the familiar and kind eyes had become that of a stranger, and just like that his veins were hot, his skin prickled. He turned away from them, walking fast in the opposite direction, ignoring their pleas to him, begging him to just stop so they could talk.

But he didn't want to talk.

Not to them at least.

-xXx-

When he arrived in the journal, it was not into the library, but instead outside, to the tree beside the lake that he, Hermione and Ron often sat under when the weather was favorable. It was just as distorted as the library had been, the greens not quite green enough, and the blue of the sky was instead a murky gray, a mirror reflection of the lake below. 

Tom was sitting under the tree, inclining his head only slightly when Harry traipsed until he stood just before him. 

“Hello again, Harry,” he said without looking up from the book in his lap, long fingers turning a page over. “I've missed our talks. I thought I might not see you again.”

He blinked, shrugging his shoulders as a blush crept up from the collar of his shirt. It was always a surprise when someone actually missed him, that someone might enjoy him and his presence. He sat down beside the older wizard, crossing his legs.

“They found out I can speak to snakes,” he said after a moment, reaching down to pluck at a blade of grass, more brown than green, as though it were dead. “They weren't impressed,” he added, laughter bubbling from his throat and then dying almost immediately.

Tom hummed. “No, they rarely ever are. But they were frightened I'm sure, and isn't that just as good?” 

He wasn't sure if Tom was joking, but he smiled all the same.

-xXx-

Months passed, a blur of golden leaves, fat, fluffy crystals of snow, and heavy droplets of rain that splattered against the ground, left Harry's glasses a fog. The diary sat snug in the inner pocket of his robe, where it always did, beside a spare quill and some ink just in case he needed it in a pinch. He spoke with Tom more than he did anyone else, either visiting him in his empty castle, or scratching quill against paper. It had become a need, and a ball of tightly wound wire would settle in his chest if he did not have the journal with him, the wire unwinding and coiling around him if he did not feel the indent of the diary against his chest.

He needed Tom almost as much as he needed oxygen to breathe. It was something he had not felt about anyone else, and he thought it strange, foreign. One day when he was feeling particularly brave, he mentioned this to Tom, writing it down in the middle of class when Professor Binns was drawling on about something uninteresting.

Tom's response was smug, and he could imagine his full lips curving into a smirk. 'Good.'

-xXx-

'Have the rumors of you being a dark wizard in disguise settled down at all?' 

Harry snorted derisively at that, shaking his head as he wrote back. 'No, I've been blacklisted. Might as well join You-Know-Who and live the life they all seem to want of me so badly.'

Tom wrote back after a moment. 'Always good to keep your options open.'

Harry frowned. 'I was kidding, of course.'

'I know.'

-xXx-

Harry was freezing. It was the first thing he knew. Consciousness came to him slowly, dizzily. He felt airy, light, as if whatever was weighing him down was gone. He blinked. Wrapped his arms around his chest.

He was outside, bare feet sinking into damp earth, the sky navy, purple at the horizon, a soft pink and orange glow seeping into the palette of colors. He was shivering, nothing but a plain t-shirt and flannel pajamas bottom. Hardly enough to keep out the chill of spring, crystals of frost iced over every individual blade of grass.

How had he gotten out here? Had he been sleepwalking?

He flushed, embarrassed to have done something so...well, weird. It was bad enough he had become the kid who talked to snakes, he certainly did not need to be the kid who sleepwalked as well.

It took great doing, and he had to duck behind several statues to avoid being caught, but he was able to make it to Gryffindor tower unnoticed. He slipped into his bed, but he was unable to sleep, too wired, his brain too alive with thought and activity. He reached beneath his pillow, pulled out the slim journal.

-xXx-

Harry awoke from his sleep with a start, sputtering and coughing, hands clutched tightly onto the curtain as he attempted to pull it apart. He was covered in a thick sheen of sweat, his heart palpitated wildly, as if it might burst through his ribs and his skin at any moment. His head spun on his shoulders, bright, white lights prickling into his vision, and his foot caught on his blanket, causing him to fall to the floor.

He groaned, entangled in the sheets and the blankets and his drenched nightshirt which clung to his skin, and he turned on his side, vomiting.

Lights flicked on.

Feet padded around him.

Hands tugged at him.

But he could not respond to their questions, could not hear them over the loud, ringing sound in his head. His eyes remained closed, too heavy to lift.

He had had a terrible nightmare.

Of blinding green lights, dead white rabbits, and a giant snake with fangs the size of his forearm. 

-xXx-

“Harry,” Dumbledore asked, his voice low and soft and warm, filled with concern and it made Harry twist his head to the side, burying his face in the white pillow slip of his bed at the hospital wing. He had no memory of how he came to be here, no memory of the what had occurred several hours prior to it as well. There was a chunk of time and thought missing from his recollection- having fallen asleep at precisely 10:02 the night before, and was found wandering the halls at exactly 4:28 by Peeves, who made such a commotion that Filch came to see the cause of it all. What he found instead was an unconscious Harry Potter, and the poltergeist claiming that he hadn't done a thing- that Harry had just collapsed all on his own.

“You can tell me why you were outside your dormitory, you know that, Harry? You won't be in trouble, I'm just worried and we need to make sure you're alright,” the elderly wizard said, blue eyes gazing at him over half-moon spectacles. After a moment, he added, “Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger have informed me that you've not been feeling well. That you've been having nightmares, have been very irritable lately.”

He wished he could tell the Headmaster why he was out in the halls- he really did- but he couldn't. Because he genuinely didn't know and if he had meant to wander the halls wouldn't he have the forethought to bring his invisibility cloak with him? But he couldn't very well say that, insisting instead that he must have been sleep walking. 

Dumbledore frowned. “Is there something you wish to tell me, Harry? Anything at all.”

Harry shook his head, the motion dizzying him. “No sir, nothing at all.” The words sounded cold even to him, foreign on his lips as if they were not his own. Dumbledore sighed.

“Very well.”

-xXx-

Tom's fingers threaded through Harry's locks, smoothing the hair back as his head laid in the older boy's lap. His eyes were closed, and he was enjoying the peace of the world. It might have been a prison for Tom, but it had become a solace for him. There was no Hermione with her worried, furtive glances, no Ron with his clunky jokes. No Dumbledore gazing at him in a way that made him shift uncomfortably in his seat, no students whispering behind hands about him.

But more importantly, there were no chunks of time left unaccounted for, no blank spaces between one moment and another. When he was in the diary, the quell of his stomach settled, the ringing in his head began to get quieter, and it was as if he ceased to exist. A nothingness surrounded by nothingness. 

It was simply him and Tom in the crude facsimile of Hogwarts. And it was enough.

“I feel sick all the time,” Harry muttered. “And no one will leave me alone about it. I get so angry, I just want to scream. I snapped at Ron for no reason the other day. Well, okay, he was chewing with his mouth open which is not only rude but just disgusting and the sound was grating on my nerves and I just-”

A hand settled down on his chest, pressing down lightly. “Harry, I think I've perfected the reversal spell,” Tom said.

Harry lurched forward, elbows pushing him upward from the soft ground and raising to his knees. He twisted to face Tom, his lips curling into a wide grin. “Really?”

He nodded, leaning his head against the tree. “Yes. You're still willing to help me?”

“Of course. What do you need me to do?”

Tom smiled. “Don't worry. You'll know.”

-xXx-

There was blood on his hands. Not in the figurative sense of the term, where he had just done something very bad and was caught. But in the literal sense. His hands trembled, sticky and warm from the viscus fluid, looking almost black in the low light of the lavatory. Beads of it slipped down the curve of his hand, down his wrist. 

He had blacked out again. He had no idea of why he was here, how he had gotten here, or why there was blood. Not just on his hands. His shoes were stained with it as well, the hem of his cloak saturated and heavy and there was so much of it and he didn't think it was his but then whose was it?

He couldn't breathe, his chest was constricted and would not expand, his throat was swollen and searing from the strain of not breathing or not breathing enough. Panic racketed through him, made his body convulse, his stomach twitch. Slowly he pulled himself up from the floor of the bathroom- how had he gotten here?- and turned to the sink, not knowing of what to do but knowing that washing off the blood was as good a start as any. 

The water ran red, swirling around the drain until it varied in shades, from deep crimson to pink. His hands sat underneath the faucet, wispy strands of steam rising above him as his skin burned at the too hot water. But it never ran clear. The water remained at least pink, and his hands were stained, the pigment deep within valleys of his skin, the lines of his individual fingerprint dyed deeper than the rest of him.

It wouldn't come off, not fully.

When he could bear the pain no more, he pulled his hands against him, cradling them to his chest and bunching them in the fabric of his cloak to dry. 

He needed to speak with someone. Someone he could trust. Someone who might tell him what to do. What he had done.

What did he do?

He found the diary, slipped within the pocket of his robes, beside a near empty bottle of ink and a small quill with a bent tip. His hands shook as he opened the ink, having to try four times to get it as each time his hand slipped from the lid, and he propped the diary on the lip of the sink. His writing spiked, curved with his shivering.

'Tom? Are you there?'

He waited, his head shaking when the words didn't disappear, when they remained etched on the page, the glossy black ink drying and not once sinking deeper-

He ripped the page from the journal, crumpling it in his fist before bringing the quill to a new, separate page. He wrote again, the words even messier than before. 'Tom?'

They remained, a taunt, a contrast between the dull yellow pages and the sharp ink. The did not disappear, and he wrote again, pressing the quill too hard into the page that it ripped through, left an impression on the pages behind it.

'Tom, please, I need you.'

Nothing. No response. No vanishing words.

Tom was gone.

-xXx-

Everyone was still asleep by the time he made it back to the dormitories, and he sat on his bed, hands tangled in his hair as he tried to even his breathing. As he tried to make sense of the events that alluded him. The diary sat before him, several pages ripped from its binding so that he could see frayed white thread that ran down the center of it. It was just an ordinary book now, nothing special about it. The engraved name on the front cover had disappeared, not even an impression of what once existed.

Had he imagined it all then? Had it all been a hallucination, a series of dreams that cropped up throughout the entirety of his school year? Had it been a- what was it called? Psychotic break? Had he lost his mind? 

He did not know, and that was the most terrifying thing of all. He was not certain of anything anymore- had Tom Riddle even existed? Was he a real person at any point in time? And whose blood had he cleaned off his shoes? 

His chest burned with his panicked, frightened sobs, oxygen searing his lungs. Hands shook as they gripped onto his hair, as his glasses fell from his nose. He couldn't breathe, he couldn't think. All he could hear was his blood in his head, like waves of an ocean were crashing over top him, like he was drowning, the undercurrent of the ocean pulling the sand away from where he stood.

He fell asleep after his eyes burned, no more tears to shed, his cheek tacky and salty. The blanket was twisted over his head, and he hoped that when he awoke it would be to learn that this had all been one elaborate nightmare.

-xXx-

The curtains surrounding his bed were pulled open, and Harry sat up, his pink hands diving to wind in his comforter. Ron stood at the part of his curtains, white hands holding them in place, his eyes wide and wet with tears. Light streamed in from the window, warm and golden. It was well into the morning.

“Ron?” Harry asked, his voice hoarse from the night before, from his inability to breathe and his constant tears and the amount of times he hunched over a toilet in the lavatory, emptying his stomach until nothing but dark green and black slime rose from his throat. 

His lip trembled. “Ginny-” was all he managed to whisper before his face crumpled, his knees giving out before him.

Something flashed within Harry's mind, the glimpse of something forgotten. Of red hair and blood- so much blood. Dark blue eyes and a diary with pages so soaked in blood that they clumped together, curled and warped. 

Ginny was dead. He didn't know how he knew this, he just did.

He knew that she was dead, that Tom Riddle was gone, and that his hands were still stained with blood.

What had he done?

-xXx-

Harry sat on the bench at Gryffindor table, a somber silence settled over the whole Great Hall. Trunks sat behind each student, heads bowed in whispers, in gossip. Some wondered why they were being urged to leave so early, what had happened to summon so many Ministry officials. But the Gryffindor table was the most silent of all, seeming too empty with the absence of the Weasleys, every one them gone, yet their presence weighing down heavy on them. There were even gaps between the students that they might have sat beside, Hermione sitting opposite Harry, no one to her left, no one to his right. Just an empty space where once presided Ginny, Ron. Lee Jordan and Katie Bell were separated by the space of two Weasley twins, no one daring to pass the divide. An unspoken rule. 

“I wonder when Hogwarts will reopen,” Hermione muttered, to no one in particular. 

Harry had not spoken, not a word since he left Dumbledore's office, the conversation echoing around in his head on repeat, an unending stream of words and letters that ran into each other.

'How long will Hogwarts be closed for, Professor?' Harry had asked quietly, knowing that perhaps it was a selfish question. A selfish concern. Someone had died. His best friend's younger sister was cold and pale and dead somewhere and he was wondering when he might return to school. 

'Until the cause of her death is determined and it is no longer considered a threat,' he answered, his blue eyes dull, void of all mirth. He seemed much older all of a sudden. He should have told him. He should have told him about the diary and Tom Riddle and of the hands which were still pink in his pockets. But he couldn't. He wouldn't be believed, there wasn't any proof of it. He wasn't even sure if he believed himself. 

'This isn't the first time a student has passed away, I'm afraid,' Dumbledore spoke, and Harry lifted his head, wondering if he knew he was talking aloud. If he meant to share this information. But he still continued to speak, his eyes not quite meeting Harry's as he added, 'We almost closed then, too. But the creature who caused it was believed to have been found. By a former student of the time, a Mr. Tom Riddle.'

His spine straightened, his jaw clenched. 'Believed?' he asked, licking his lips. 'Tom Riddle?'

Dumbledore lifted his chin, gazing at Harry with an indiscernible expression. 'Yes. He was lauded as a hero, even awarded for his services to the school. But that was a long time ago. Things have changed since then.'

'How so?'

'Tom Riddle is better known as Lord Voldemort these days.'

Tom Riddle was Lord Voldemort. Ginny Weasley was dead. And Harry Potter had blood on his hands.

-xXx-

Dumbledore sighed heavily, placing his glasses on the desk beside him so as to rub his eyes with long, bony fingers. The Weasleys had left his office only moments earlier, a weary and broken unit of red rimmed eyes and wretched sobs. There was something inherently tragic about the death of someone so young, with lips sticky and sweet from treats and eyes wide, blind to the horrors of the world. 

People were meant to grow. People were meant to be broken. They were meant to leave behind their mothers and fathers, to marry, to conceive children of their own. They were meant to be buried in their own cemetery plots, separated from their parents by a fence, a town, a country. They were not meant to be buried beside the two graves that would someday belong to their father, their mother. Families were not meant to remain whole in death, they were not meant to be buried side by side like that.

And the school would be closed, a decision that he agreed with. It was unsafe, and he would be damned if another child fell victim to the same cruel hand that had ended young Ginevra's life. Though, he didn't think that anyone else were in danger, if he were being honest.

He didn't know for certain, but whatever role the youngest Weasley's death had played in, there was no more need for it. No more need for another child to die. 

But children did not need to die to be lost, and the thought alone made Dumbledore sigh once more, his shoulders sagging.

He was concerned for Harry, concerned by the wide and frightened look in those green eyes. Concerned for the way he made himself small, shrinking into a ball. Concerned by the way he perked up at Tom Riddle's name, as if he had heard it before. As if it meant something. Concerned by the silence, the tightly pinched lips that seemed too purposeful to be unintentional.

Concerned by the fact that over the past several months, Harry had evidently become quite an accomplished occlumens, and that no amount of prying on his part could allow him in.

-xXx-

Harry sat against the tree, the letter clenched within his fist. He read over the words, eyes scanning the page, flicking over them as if they might change. As if he could will them to change.

'We are sorry to inform you that Hogwarts will not be opening this year...' 'Students have been enrolled into nearby schools, taken into consideration location and eligibility...' 'Mr. Harry Potter has been accepted into Beauxbatons...' 'Travel accommodations have been made and a train will depart from the usual platform of 9 ¾ at King's Cross Station...' 'Students are encouraged to leave the morning of August 31 so as to have time to familiarize themselves with their new schools...'

He crumpled the paper, holding it in his hands as he chewed his lips. Hogwarts was closed. It was his home, the closest thing he had had of such a thing, and now it was gone. For how long, he did not know. 

His hands were clean, and yet if he strained, he thought he could still see the pink tint. 

He had tried to tell Dumbledore of everything, he really had. He had even on more than one occasion sat down to write a letter, sitting up in bed after trying and failing to sleep for several hours. But the words would not come, and his scar would hiss in pain, roaring to life, blinding him. It was as if a hot poker was being pushed through his eyes, searing his brain. He was bound to secrecy, signing a contract he had not meant to sign.

He pressed the heel of his palm against his head, breathing in the fresh, earthy scent. Much of the town he lived in had been paved in concrete, buildings clustered together to fit as many in a row as possible. The woods he sat in now were perhaps the only of it's kind for miles, and it had become a haven. Away from the Dursleys. Away from excitable and screaming children at the playground.

They had not been pleased at all to find that his school had let out early, and that he was expected to return home in May instead of midway through June. A student had died, and they suffered for it. They had taken away his room as punishment, locking him within the cupboard once more, the walls and cobwebs familiar, the spiders that inhabited the corners more of a family to him than the ones beyond the little space underneath the stairs. 

He had written to Hermione and Ron, though Ron was slow to return them, his letters short, bare. He couldn't imagine what the Weasleys were going through, they had even turned down a trip to Egypt offered as a reward from the Ministry. 

He carded a hand through his hair, fingers trembling, tugging too hard at the roots. He exhaled, his chest shaking with the breath. Months had passed, he had not found the diary- the real one, crisp and hardened with blood. He had not spoken to Tom Riddle- to Voldemort- in the same amount of time, and hung his head, heavy with shame.

The entire time. It had been Lord Voldemort the entire time. He had not known how, he had not known exactly what sort of magic led to a young version of Lord Voldemort existing within the pages of a book. But he did, and Harry had spent an entire school year conversing with him, had confided in him, trusted him.

He had promised to help him escape the prison, and his hands were coated in blood. 

He could hardly eat with the guilt of it all, and Dudley's old clothes hung even looser on his skinny frame, the contours of his bones pressing too sharply against his skin. He looked sickly, with thick, shadowed bags below his eyes and his skin a sallow color, looking just as gray as the world within the diary had been.

He hadn't slept, not properly, and all he wanted to do was confess, to tell someone what he knew and the role he had played and apologize because it was all his fault, if he hadn't written in that bloody book none of this would have happened.

But even the thought of doing so left him with crippling pain, and once when he had brought pen to paper, ready to write it all down for Dumbledore, blood had dripped from his eyes, from his nose. Trickled down his neck from where it slipped over the shell of his ear. He had fainted before he could even write the u in the Headmaster's name, his body thudding to the floor of the empty dining room. 

He had not seen an optometrist, but he had held a hand over his left eye with no glasses on to determine that he had lost most of his vision in his right eye. That there was a bit of a film over it, like a cataract. 

He physically could not admit to it, and he wasn't sure why. 

He startled at the sound of rustling leaves, a twig snapping under someone's weight. He looked up, jumping to his feet and shuffling backwards at the sight of Tom Riddle standing between two trees, his forearms resting against them. He was smirking, lips skewed unevenly so one side was lifted higher than the other, a slight crescent of a dimple forming in his cheek. 

Lord Voldemort had dimples.

“You,” Harry hissed, lacing the one singular word with as much venom as he possibly could.

Tom chuckled. “Me.”

Harry shook his arm, sliding the wand down from where it sat tucked in his sleeve and into his palm, curling his hand around it and aiming it at the wizard in defense. This only made his smirk deepen, his dark blue eyes gleam. “Not happy to see me, Harry? Pity, seeing as how happy I am to see you.”

“You tricked me!” Harry roared, his voice cracking over the words.

“Guilty,” Tom said, unabashed by the claim. He took a step forward, pausing as he flicked his gaze over Harry, humming in thought. “You've grown so much over a single summer. Funny how that happens, isn't it? A child one month, practically a man the next.”

It wasn't funny at all. Nothing he said was funny. 

He should have cursed him, underage magic rules be damned. Surely, defending oneself against the Dark Lord was a special circumstance. But he didn't curse him, chewing his lip instead as he asked the question that had tormented him since the night he awoken covered in blood, “What did you do to Ginny?” 

He needed to know. He didn't want to know, but he needed to. Perhaps if he knew what sort of spell Tom had used to free himself, he could reverse it, vanish him from the world permanently.

Tom frowned. “I protect you from being arrested for murder- hide all the evidence for you, even go to the trouble of occluding your mind, and you want to repay me by killing me? That isn't very fair.” His tone was light, playful, and it made Harry's stomach coil into a tight knot. 

Occluding his mind? What had that meant? And was he able to read his thoughts?

His green eyes fell to the ground for a moment, flinching when Tom barked out a sharp laugh. “If you really must know, yes I can read your thoughts. And I did nothing to Ginny. You did it all yourself.”

He shook his head. “No, I would never-”

“It's a shame you forgot it all. You might have enjoyed it, the way she cried, begging you to not hurt her. To not kill her,” he said the words as if reminiscing over a fond memory, his lips curled into a small, wry smile.

Harry's lip trembled, his wand wavering in his grasp. “Why...why would I do that-”

Tom shrugged. “Because I told you to. You'll find I can be rather persuasive when I need to be.” After a second, he added, “If it wasn't her, it would have been you. The diary leeches onto a soul, whichever one pours itself onto the pages, and siphons the life from them, feeding it to me. I decided I rather liked you, and that another soul would have to do in your place. It took a bit of doing- some rather archaic usage of blood magic, but it did the trick you see.” He thumped a hand against a side, as if it was evidence of how alive he was. That he was flesh and blood and muscles and tissues instead of ink and paper. 

So that was it then? Ginny had died so that Harry wouldn't- yet another instance in his life in which he had lived, another falling in his place. If possible, the guilt mounted even more within him, and he clenched his jaw, ground the crowns of his teeth together. 

Tom took several steps forward, kicking pebbles out before him as he did so. Harry made to step back, to jab his wand forward, but branches burst through the earth, flinging dirt as they wrapped around his ankles, winding tightly around his clothed legs and locking him in place. He stumbled, waving his arms to prevent himself from falling backwards, when an unseen force tugged at his wand, pulling it from his grasp.

It flew in an arc in the air, settling in Tom's outstretched hand as his fingers curled around it. He held it up, twirling it within his fingers experimentally, skewing his lips in thought. “It's not as good as mine was, but extraordinarily close. Phoenix feather?” he asked.

“Go to hell,” Harry seethed, digging nails so deeply into his palm that he drew blood.

Tom took another step forward, until he stood directly before Harry, using the tip of the wand to push aside the air that had fallen over his face. A hand rose, cupping his chin to hold him in place as he looked at the scar with interest, blue eyes narrowed. “You are far more special than you give yourself credit for, Harry Potter,” he murmured. And then he bent his head, placing a chaste kiss to the small fragments cutting over Harry's skin. It sparked, as if electrified, and something shot through him, something delicious and euphoric as if he were whole and complete and Harry was horrified to realize that he had leaned forward, a hand raised pressed flat against Tom's chest to steady himself. 

He quickly brought it back to his side, struggling against the hand that held onto his chin, a second hand reaching out and wrapping around his upper arm. “I'm not special. I'm nothing. Why don't you just kill me and get it over with then? Isn't that what you want- why you tried to kill me in the first place when I was a baby?”

Tom eyes flashed, the blue turning into red so quickly, so wholly, that it seemed to happen all at once, instead of a transition. The fingers around his chin tightened their hold, nails digging into flesh. “NO!” he roared, and Harry stiffened at the fire in his voice, at the warning that lurked beneath the words. Tom spoke again, his words lower and quieter yet far more frightening, the hair on Harry's arm standing on end. “Nothing will harm you, not if I have anything to say about it. Not me, not Dumbledore, and certainly not that pathetic creature, searching for a new host to play parasite with until he can fix the mess he got himself into.”

It took only a second for Harry to understand what he meant by creature. Voldemort, the sliver of the man that had fed off Quirrell in his first year. He furrowed his brows at that. Were there two of them then? The younger version of him, stepping out from the encrypted pages of a book, and the one that had always existed, the one that had killed his mother and father?

And Tom was planning on...protecting him from Voldemort?

The hand on his chin moved, running through Harry's hair and disheveling it before settling on the back of his neck. “Yes, it does mean I'm protecting you from him.”

If anything, it was more disconcerting to be offered his protection than to be threatened, and Harry squirmed against the hands that wrapped around him. The roots had risen to his hip, snaking further along him and holding him in place, and he could only wriggle his torso.

“Let me go,” Harry hissed, raising his hands and shoving against Tom. Not as if it would accomplished much, as he couldn't run anyway, bound by the branches that were thick as his calves. But Tom's grip was too tight on him, and he was too sturdy, and he remained standing before Harry, fingers dinging into his arm, hand cradling his neck.

Tom shook his head, making the curl fall in front of his face. "You can't leave me, you can never leave me. Where ever you go I will follow, and where ever you hide I will find you. Even in the deepest depths of the ocean, or in death. You are mine and you belong to me, my love." He spoke the words, his voice hardly above a whisper, as if he were making a vow to a lover. 

A desperate sob broke from between Harry's lips, and he shook with anger. Anger that he had ever seen Malfoy slip the journal into Ginny's cauldron, anger that he had taken it and wrote within its pages. Anger that he fell for it, for every caring word, for every pretty lie and broken promise. Anger that he offered his soul away, that he had killed someone else in his own place.

And all over a book; a simple, blank diary.

It was something so simple. Something so so unassuming, so innocent seeming. It was just a book. What harm had ever come from a book?


	2. A Dog, A Bus, and A Letter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! Yes, this will be a multichaptered fic (I could not resist). Each school year will be only about a chapter or two long, and the events will be fairly similar to canon for the most part with me changing and manipulating whatever I need. There will be romance between Tom and Harry, though not until Harry is off age as I am not comfortable with it otherwise. That is all for now. Thank you all so much for all the comments and support of the first chapter! There aren't enough words to say how appreciated it is! Enjoy!

Chapter Two: A Dog, A Bus and A Letter

Harry sunk his hands into the hot, soapy water, fingers wrapping around the heated metal of a fork. Pulling it upward, he rubbed at the prongs aggressively with a sponge, jaw clenched as he tried in vain to block out the words being spoken behind him.

“Getting ready for school to start, Dudley-Dear?” Aunt Marge asked, her voice loud and brash and like a bolt of lightning to Harry, setting his nerves on fire, his body thrumming with irritation. “What teacher has he got? A good one, I hope. Nothing like the sort he had at the beginning of term last year. She was absolutely wretched! You won't be letting the teachers bully you around like that this year, of course, Dudley?”

The response was smug, spoken through a mouthful of chocolate cake that made his voice sound thick, congested. “Absolutely not, Aunt Marge.”

She made a hum of approval, and Harry curled his hands into a fist at the sound. 

The woman was dreadful in every sense of the word, refusing to allow Harry out of her sight but unable to keep from ignoring him. Not a span of ten minutes could pass before she would turn to him, lips skewed into a frown, disdain evident in her beady eyes. Her words were cruel- cutting- and every syllable that left her tongue tied another knot in his frayed composure, permanent cuts indented on the inside of his cheek from biting down on them so hard and often.

Five days had passed since he had seen Tom in the woods. He had thought for certain that he would never return home that afternoon with the tree branch wound tightly over his legs, Tom bruising his arm with his tight grip. He had been surprised when Tom left him, disappearing with a crack, the feel of soft, pliable lips still lingering over the scar on Harry's head. His parting words still echoed in his ears, reverberating against his skull: 'I'll be in touch.'

They were a promise, a threat. But why hadn't Tom just taken Harry with him? He had claimed he wanted to protect him, that Harry would never be able to leave him. And yet, Tom had left him. Easily. Swiftly. Vanishing in a flourish of a cloak, a crackle of heated air.

And the roots unwound, sinking back into the earth. By the time he had found his wand- tossed among the strewn about sticks and overgrown brushes- and ran home, Marge had arrived for her week long stay. She had whacked him with her walking stick several times for his tardiness, calling him rude, pathetic and a scoundrel all the while. When he retreated into his cupboard below the stairs, knees knocking into his chin as he fell to the cot, he heard Marge congratulate Vernon on finally putting his foot down. 'It's enough that you opened your home to him, took him in when no one else wanted him. You were spoiling him by giving him a room- he wasn't very grateful for it.'

Five days of Marge had left him worn, adding onto the already mounting well of emotions. The anxiety and paranoia that left him looking over his shoulder, examining every shadowed corner with impossible scrutiny. Looking to the places beyond the glass of a window that were too dark, too distorted by the light from within a home to see properly. If Tom Riddle had been hidden behind the bushes, he hadn't seen him. Though it did little to ease his mind. He was fairly certain he could keep a well enough eye on Harry without having to lurk around the streets of Privet Drive.

“What's wrong with you boy?!” an unkind voice bellowed, and he startled, releasing the fork that he had been cleaning for several minutes. “Can't even figure out how to clean some silverware?”

His jaw clenched as Dudley snickered at the quip, Uncle Vernon leveling a stern glare in Harry's direction. “St. Brutus is far more fond of corporal punishments than they are in chores, though perhaps I should call the Headmaster about the oversight.”

“While you're at it tell them to be more forthcoming with the cane on the boy. Must not be using it on him enough.”

Harry twisted sharply away from the conversation, the muscles in his jaw clenched, aching with the pressure of the tight clamp. Settling the damning fork aside, he reached into the sink for a plate. 

“It's lovely that you've got some place to ship him off to for the school year but I still insist that you should have sent him to an orphanage. No sense taking on the burden for someone so unappreciative,” Aunt Marge drawled.

Fingernails dug into the porous sponge as he scrubbed at the plate a bit too harshly, a muscle in his jaw twitching in the strain. Funny that they spoke of an orphanage as if it were some sort of hell, a circle even lower and more vile than the one he had already been imprisoned in. Surely, a state home would be far more preferable to sleeping in a cupboard, his knees bent to accommodate for the considerable amount of growing he had done since he was eleven. Far more preferable to eating only the scraps that were left behind, portions so meager it was more a taunt than an act of kindness. Surely, an orphanage would not be so bad.

'Tom had hated it though,' he thought, the idea enough to still him, his eyes raising from the dishes he was washing to the window above the sink, the sky newly darkened as the day faded to night. Had Tom- Voldemort, not Tom, he's Voldemort- really even lived in an orphanage? Or had it all been a lie? A carefully constructed ruse in an attempt to trick Harry? Relating to him on such a raw, intimate way- a way that no one else had managed as they did not know what it was like to grow up without a loving family, to be 'the boy' and nothing more. 

Who had mentioned being an orphan first? Had it been Harry, with To-Voldemort latching onto the confession and seeing the opportunity that it presented, eyes shining with greed and want? Or had Voldemort mentioned it first, a lucky guess or perhaps a grain of truth buried within a mountain of lies?

After a moment, he shook the thought from his head. There was something disconcerting about thinking of Voldemort as anything other than the behemoth, the terrible monster he had become. It seemed perverse that at one point in time, he had been like Harry. A thirteen year old boy. A student at Hogwarts.

That he had been a baby, would have cried and wailed for the attention of a mother that may or may not have been there to dote on him. What sort of mother would give birth to a child like him? What man had fathered him?

It was too normal. Too human. 

“Boy!” 

It was Uncle Vernon this time who roared, and Harry craned his neck around to see four sets of eyes looking to him. 

“Marge is talking to you and you're being incredibly rude to her!” His face was ruddy, his own frustration with Harry mottling his complexion into an ugly palette of reds and violets. 

“I'm sorry-” he began to say, struggling to sound appropriately apologetic. 

But his words were cut off, Marge's nostrils flaring in disgust. “That's to be expected I suppose. Look at his genes- no offense to you, of course, Petunia, you're lovely. But in all honestly that sister of yours would have done well to keep her legs closed and away from that degenerate Potter.”

The plate slipped from Harry's hand, shattering as it fell to the floor. It was loud, a piercing sound, and he was dimly aware of the shards of porcelain which splattered at his feet. Marge rose, her lips forming an 'o' in the beginning of a taunt that never left her mouth as Harry roared loudly, “Don't you dare talk about my mother and father that way!” His voice cracked, the young, prepubescent warble of a not quite man.

Marge stepped forward, shoving her chair to the side with a screech as the legs scraped along wooden floors. She extended an arm outward, a plump finger poking at the air before him accusingly. “I'll talk about your mother and father however I want to! They were no good- that mother of yours was a foul and dirty thing that would give it to anyone who asked politely enough and your father-”

“ENOUGH!” he shouted, his throat aching at the intensity. His hands were balled at his side, fingernails carving half moon shaped cuts into his soft palm. He was shaking with rage, trembling in a way that made him feel anxious, like his energy could not be contained within the structure of his bones and skin. He could feel the floor shake as several other chairs scraped along it, as Marge pounded towards him. Saw her lips twist and contort and he knew that the kitchen was a cacophony of noise and yells.

Yet, he could hear none of it. The only thing he could hear was a high-pitched whistle, like steam escaping a forgotten kettle. And the voice whispering in the back of his skull.

'Show her, Harry. Show her why she should never talk to you like that. Show her just how different you and your parents are. How special you are.'

There was a clatter behind him, dishes bursting with an unseen force. Bulbous wells of wine glasses shattering as they sat drying on the counter, water glasses and plates following in like fashion. And with a hiss, they flew into the air, jettisoning beyond Harry and at Marge with such great speed that he could hardly see them slice through her exposed skin before they fell to the floor, sticky with blood.

Anger left him, air escaping a balloon, and his eyes widened in horror as the tip of her extended index finger, sliced at the second knuckle, fell a half second later.

It was as if the world had been put on pause, mute, only for it to sped up, noise and color and reality sinking in all at once. 

There was blood everywhere, deep cuts along Marge's haggard face only adding to the carnage of her severed finger. She was bellowing in rage and in pain, pausing in her tirade to scream as her uninjured hand clutched feebly at her wrist. Petunia was squealing, her long, bony fingers wound nervously in her blonde hair as Dudley asked over and over again what was happening. Only Vernon seemed capable of action, roaring obscenities as his face turned a brilliant shade of crimson. He took long strides across the kitchen to Harry, who startled at him before taking off in a run.

In his entire thirteen years of existence, he had never been so thankful to be so fast and wily, slipping just out of reach of the man and darting down the hall, his heart thudding in his chest. “GET BACK HERE!” Vernon roared behind him, his gruff voice booming over the chaos.

But Harry was out the door in seconds, leaving behind the blood and the screaming as he ran aimlessly down the street, not sure of where he was headed but simply knowing he needed to get as far away as possible.

He had made it two blocks before he came to a stop, bent at the waist and his hands gripping onto his knees. His legs were shaking, his breath coming out in raspy, uneven spurts. He stood like that for some time, attempting to steady his breathing and thinking of what to do, of what had happened.

What had happened?

He was no stranger to accidental bursts of magic, though they were few and far between since attending Hogwarts. But never before had it been so...malicious. It had felt as if he was submerged in ice cold water, his blood freezing in his veins as something else had taken over, a hand over his and something sinister within his mind that wanted to hurt.

Something sinister that had enjoyed hurting her, that enjoyed showing that horrid woman just what he could do.

He swallowed thickly, shoving the thoughts away for now. Further examination could occur later, when his thoughts were less jumbled and he wasn't standing outside on the street, the skies already darkened. The night was cold, and he felt his flesh prickle underneath his lightweight jumper, wrapping his arms around his torso for some warmth. 

What was he to do? Where was he to go? He couldn't very well turn back after that. 

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of whimpering, the distinct whine of a dog. 

He twisted where he stood, stumbling at the sight of an impossibly large dog in the center of the road. The thing was massive, despite looking quite underfed, matted and mangled black fur covering what he was sure would be visible ribs. It stepped forward, one huge paw that looked as if it had been chewed at, patches of fur missing, coming down on the pavement, and Harry took an involuntary step backwards.

He stumbled, tripping over the lip of the sidewalk. His head smacked against the gravel bed of a path that lead to the front porch of a home, his arms splaying outwards. A low groan slipped from between his lips as he slowly sat back up, rubbing a hand over a tender spot of his scalp. Wonderful.

Just what this evening needed.

A concussion. 

Brushing dirt and small, embedded pieces of gravel from his jeans, he stood, just in time to jump out of the way of a careening vehicle, one which seemed to appear out of thin air. Tires screeched harshly over the road, one thumping over the sidewalk as what appeared to be a triple-decker bus came to a halting stop, forced at an angle by the uneven tires. 

A dog barked, massive paws thudding into the ground.

The bus- a brilliant shade of violet that Harry had never before seen on transport- let out a hiss, doors squeaking open. A thin faced, mousy looking man poked his head out, looking about him before settling his eyes on Harry. 

When Harry made no motion to move forward, he said, “Well? What're ya waiting for? An invitation?”

Tentatively, Harry took a step forward, peering through the curtained windows. He thought he could see what appeared to be beds in the interior of the bus. How curious, he thought, knowing that it surely had to have belonged to the Wizard World.

How muggle of them, appropriating a bus.

“Are...are you stopping at...the Leaky Cauldron?” he asked, licking his lips. It was the only establishment that came to mind, one that offered both a warm meal and lodging.

His stomach quivered at that. He hadn't had the opportunity to eat all. The Dursleys insisted he wait until after they finished eating before he was allowed to have anything at all, and their dinner had come to a rather unfortunate end. 

“We can go whereva ya need,” the man said, extending a thin hand outward. “Eleven sickles. Thirteen for a hot chocolate.”

Harry's mouth went dry. In all his haste to leave, he hadn't grabbed any of his belongings. He had only the clothes on his back and the wand in his pocket. “I-er,” he mumbled, slipping his hands uselessly into his pockets. His fingers met something hard and cold, and with wide and grateful eyes, he pulled out a handful of coins that had not been there before. He wasn't certain how they managed to sit in his pants without his knowledge- several galleons and about seventeen sickles was not exactly a light amount- but he had never been more thankful for his stroke of luck than in that moment.

Counting out thirteen sickles, he handed them over before slipping the rest of the coins back in his pockets.

“I'm Stan Shunpike,” the man said as he stepped aside, his lips moving noiselessly as he counted the change. “You?”

Harry grimaced. “Neville. Neville Longbottom,” he lied, entering the bus without any a thought to Marge and her severed finger, or the stray dog that had all but disappeared.

-xXx-

The Leaky Cauldron was busy, lively witches and wizards with reddened faces laughing, huddled together in earnest conversation. The bar was so crowded that Harry could hardly see the barkeep scurrying around between all the patrons, all the surrounding tables full with plates of hearty dishes- shepherd's pie, roast beef, and steaming potatoes- and he stood in the doorway awkwardly, feeling quite out of place. 

His shirt stuck to him from where his hot chocolate had splashed onto him during a particularly sharp and frightening maneuver the Knight Bus had taken. His hair was still tousled from when he had been sent flying through the interior. He was immediately self conscious, running a hand through his hair and wondering what to do.

Surely, he had enough for a night stay in one of the rooms, and hopefully even a plate of food, his stomach growling at all the tempting smells surrounding him. He could figure out the rest later. Of what to do. Of how much worrying he should do. 

Accidental or not, he had used magic outside of school.

Had harmed a muggle.

And even worse, like a common criminal, he fled the crime scene.

He frowned. Not as if it wasn't his first time fleeing such a thing.

“Ah, Mr. Potter! I had hoped I'd find you here!”

Harry startled at the loud declaration, turning to find a rather plump wizard coming towards him, a large congenial smile warming his face. His hair was thin, graying, and his arms were extending outward as if he might wrap them around Harry in a hug once he got close enough.

Thankfully, he had stopped just short of that, letting one arm fall to his side while the other reached out, expectantly. “Minister for Magic, Cornelius Fudge. It is a pleasure to meet your acquaintance,” he greeted, shaking Harry's hand vigorously. 

Harry felt his heart plummet as he took his own hand back, curling it against his chest. There would be no time to figure out the rest later, it seemed. No putting of anything off until he had some food in his belly or a proper rest on a bed that he could fully extend out on without having to contort himself. 

He might have wondered just how much trouble he was in, if he would be expelled from Beauxbatons before he even got to attend, but he was too distracted by the merry tone of Fudge's voice as he placed a hand on Harry's shoulder, leading him towards a table by the fireplace.

“I must say, we're certainly relieved to see you're alright. When we had heard about the Auror report, we had assumed the worst-” he said, causing Harry to skew his brows in thought.

“We?” he asked.

As if to answer the question, Fudge came to a stop, pushing Harry down into a chair opposite none other than Albus Dumbledore.

The older wizard smiled, leaning forward in his chair. “Hello, Harry. Glad to see you're well,” he said, his blue eyes noticeably absent of their familiar twinkle. 

“You are well, right? You don't need us to find you a healer?” Fudge cut in as he sat in a chair between Dumbledore an Harry. He exhaled in relief when Harry shook his head, muttering that he was fine. 

A moment passed in which nothing was said, Fudge rubbing his eyes as though he were exhausted despite it only being about nine in the evening; Dumbledore gazing at Harry in that way that made him feel as if he were invisible, vulnerable and stripped and raw.

He shifted in his seat.

Coughed.

“Is this about what happened to Aunt Marge?” he asked. Best to get it over with. No pleasantries or kindness. 'We're sorry, our hands are tired. Magic in front of muggles and by underage wizards is strictly prohibited. You're being expelled. Hand over your wand, we'll bring you back to the Dursley's. Perhaps if your lucky, they'll let you stay in that roomy closet and not stick you in the one with the water heater for punishment.'

He was surprised when Fudge shook his head. “Marjorie Dursley has been healed and her memory erased by the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad. Hardly the least of our concerns, really, what with everything that happened tonight,” he said. 

“Right,” Harry said, trying to hide his confusion. He was beginning to get the distinct impression that his version of the night's events might have been a bit different from the version Fudge had. 

“The Aurors were called in by the use of dark magic, you see, and when they arrived, they interviewed your family. You gave us quite a fright, running off like that! But that was quick thinking, summoning the Knight Bus. I'm sure that scared Black off right and well!” Fudge said, chuckling nervously as if he had something funny. He didn't.

Harry frowned. “Black?”

“The Wizard who attacked you and your family tonight. That is his name,” Dumbledore explained, his eyes narrowing from behind the half-moon spectacles. “I understand you don't get the Daily Prophet delivered over the summer, but you might have heard about him through muggle reports. He escaped some time ago, from Azkaban-”

Before Dumbledore could continue, Fudge interrupted, leaning forward as if to bodily get in Dumbledore's way. “We've been working tirelessly at the Ministry to find him, I assure you. Aurors working around the clock, top researchers trying to figure out how exactly he did manage to escape in the first place. I myself wanted to make certain that we had several Aurors maintain a watch outside your home just in case this exact scenario should occur. But the director of the Auror Department wouldn't hear it, said we didn't have enough men,” he said, the word disingenuous coming to the forefront of Harry's mind unbidden. Fudge chuckled inappropriately again. “She'll certainly be hearing about how her oversight nearly found our Harry Potter in grave danger.”

Dumbledore flicked his eyes over to fudge, opening his mouth before closing it, as if thinking better of what he had to say. 

Harry swallowed a lump in his throat. “I'm fine. Really. Just a little hungry and tired now that it's all over,” he said, choosing his vague words carefully. It was a great deal of information- confusing information, that didn't quite match up with his own memory and it made his head ache to even begin to think of how both truths could exist simultaneously. He had no idea who Black was or why he would attack him, no guess to what an Azkaban even was. 

And yet, he knew better than to ask. Afraid that doing so might dissolve whatever carefully fabricated story that Minister had discovered at that house on Privet Drive. He didn't know what was going on, but he somehow knew that maintaining the lie was the only thing between him and expulsion.

If they knew the truth- that Harry was not pursued by anyone, that he was running away from himself and his own mistakes instead of some escaped wizard. That no one but Harry and him alone had injured a muggle. If they knew any of it, they would ask for his wand without a moment of hesitation.

He hated to lie, least of all to Dumbledore, but he couldn't risk expulsion. Couldn't risk being sent back to the Dursley's where punches and kicks and empty plates were readily offered to him. Where he was locked within a closet with hardly any food in his belly and bruised ribs from when Uncle Vernon lost his temper when Harry didn't retrieve the mail fast enough or didn't clean to his liking. 

It was a matter of survival.

He wouldn't live another month of the Dursleys.

This, he knew too with certainty. 

“Let's get you some food then,” Fudge said, rising from his seat and disappearing into the crowd. 

“You have two nights before school commences. You can stay here, until then. I am told a staff member has already procured a room for you, you can fetch the key from Tom at the bar when you're ready. Your stuff, as well as that lovely owl of yours have all been dropped off and are waiting for you upstairs. You've been accepted into Beauxbatons, yes?” Dumbledore asked.

Harry nodded, finding it difficult to not look away when the blue eyes bore into him so painfully. Dumbledore had been the first- if not the only- person Harry thought he could trust, that he could believe with little hesitation when he said he cared for him and wanted the best for him. It felt terrible to lie to him- profusely, it seemed, ever since he had found himself in possession of the damnable diary. Tom's diary.

He curled his hands into fists at the thought of the other boy.

The Dark Lord. 

Further proof that Harry was rarely ever good at knowing who to trust.

Dumbledore sighed, though at what he didn't know, as Harry had become too distracted by the start of a headache, the throbbing pain making his vision bleary. He placed a hand to his temple, wincing as he nodded along to Dumbledore's stories of the French school and the Headmistress, a beautiful if not unique witch named Madame Maxime. 

A plate of food was placed before him, and he hungrily tore into it, feeling his headache subside the more satiated he became. He assured Fudge several more times that he was fine, that Black had not managed any damage during the attack. He asked Dumbledore questions about his new school, asked if there was any chance of Hogwarts reopening.

“I'm afraid not,” he had answered solemnly. “Not until the cause of Ginny Weasley's death becomes clear to us.”

Harry opened his mouth, the words he had wanted to say all summer dying on his tongue as his headache returned with such force that stars burst in his vision.

He clamped his lips, waited for the pain to abate, his right eye blurry, unable to see anything but half formed shadows.

Dumbledore watched him, scratched his chin in thought.

“That's too bad,” Harry said after a minute before sinking the tongs of his fork into a piece of chicken.

Lying was survival, he reminded himself.

-xXx-

Harry came to a stop in front of the marked room. Room 4. He ran a hand through his hair, untidying it further than it already was as he slid the key into the lock, twisting it until it clicked.

He had never before looked so forward to sleep. The night had been exhausting and perplexing and he wanted nothing more than for it to end. He knew there was much to do- he still had yet to even shop for his school supplies- and now he needed to learn about this Azkaban and Sirius Black and how any of it had even tied together so that his own assault on Aunt Marge could be mistaken by Ministry officials.

He had bid both Dumbledore and Fudge a goodnight, sighing a breath of relief when they allowed him to go. He was safe, at least for the night. With any hope, he wouldn't be returning to the Dursley's until the school year would come to an end.

He pushed the door open, taking only a step inside before pausing. 

The light hanging from the ceiling in the center of the room was on, casting a warm glow over the scene before him. His trunk was placed at the foot of the bed, just as Dumbledore had promised. Hedwig's empty cage sat on a desk placed beside an open window, the breeze rustling the curtains. But most curious of all was by the small complementary kitchenette, where Tom Riddle stood in front of stove, pulling a steaming kettle off a burner, the coils an angry red.

He looked up at the intrusion, blinking at Harry before tipping the spout of the kettle over a mug. “I've made us some tea,” he said simply, as if they were old friends. 

Harry spun on his feet, retreating back down the hall as fast as he could. With any hope, Dumbledore or Fudge would still be there, exchanging long farewells within the dining hall. And he could end it. End the torment and the guilt and the lies and the fear that over his shoulder was the young Lord Voldemort. He wouldn't have to tell them, wouldn't have his tongue bound in silence if he could just show them because he was right there, in the flesh, casually making tea in his room.

“Professor!” he yelled just as he made it to the top of the stairs.

He shot on arm out, bracing himself against the wall as the world begun to spin rapidly, colors and movements blurring into mottled shapes. The sounds from below- of laughter and conversation and goblets clinking on tables- dimmed, fading as it was replaced by a high-pitched hiss. The sound the Knight Bus made when it came to a halt. The sound of the tea kettle. 

His face was numb, the pain behind his eye so immediately intense that it gave way to nothing, the nerves unable to take much more torment.

He wavered on his feet. 

Touched a hand to his face, feeling something wet and warm.

Tears or perhaps blood.

When he fell backwards, it was into waiting arms.

-xXx-

Harry awoke nearly nine hours later. The sky outside the window was blue and bright, and he was greeted by the hooting of Hedwig, her wings rustling through the air as she flew freely about the room. She fluttered down to the bedside table, leaning forward and pecking playfully at his pillow as he twisted around to look at her. 

He smiled, knowing that it was the first time all summer she had been able to stretch her wings, confined to the cage and spare bedroom at the Dursley's, where Harry could only see her once a day to feed her. 

'She doesn't deserve that,' he thought rubbing a hand over his face, stilling when it found the gauze bandage covering his eye. 

He sat up in bed, the events of the previous night rushing to him in quick succession, like the recollection of a nightmare as one sat panting and heaving in sweat soaked sheets. 'Tom was here,' his mind screamed at him, and he looked up from his lap and around the room, his one uncovered eye settling on the figure sitting before him. The dark curls pushed neatly in place as Tom bent over the table, a copy of The Daily Prophet in front of him. 

“Morning,” Tom said, reaching for a cup beside him and bringing it to his lips. When Harry said nothing in return, he settled the cup back onto its saucer, turning to meet his gaze. “Are you feeling well?”

He might have snorted at that if not for the sheer incredulity of it all. Instead, he asked simply, “You did something to me. And I can't tell anyone about you. Or even think about telling them.” It wasn't a question. It was a statement.

The edge of Tom's lips quirked, tipping into an smirk as he said, “Very astute.” He turned back to the paper, adding, “A security measure of sorts. A necessary evil I'm afraid. It would be very unsafe if word got out that I'm back, and as much as I hate to cause you pain I had no choice.”

At this, Harry did snort.

Tom looked up at him once more, his dark blue eyes wide. “You don't believe me?”

“You haven't exactly given me reason to,” Harry answered, shuffling out of bed and pawing through the covers, tossing them aside. “Where's my wand?”

Tom ignored his question. “I'm being quite sincere. I know that may be hard given what occurred between you and the one they call You-Know-Who-” he paused here, a small smirk flitting across his face- “But I urge you to try to keep us separate. I am no more him than you are.”

Harry ceased his search for his wand, glowering at the older boy as his lips pulled back in a snarl. “No! That's not true because you are him. I don't know what you did or how you did it but you're him just younger and you're nothing like me.” The last few words were spoken through his teeth.

If Tom was startled by the anger in Harry's words and the vitriol with which he spoke, he didn't show it, only frowning as he said, “I wasn't lying to you. I was doing research, experimenting with things I had no business with, admittedly. I trapped myself- a part of myself- within the diary. What went on after that...” He paused, sighing as he rubbed at his eyes. “It wasn't me. Something happened to my soul and the part that remained in this world was merely a sliver of myself.

“I don't pretend to believe that Lord Voldemort is no monster. I have read of him. Tried to form a timeline using all the information I gathered to understand what he did with the life he took from me. He may have once called himself Tom Riddle, but I swear that is all we have in common. Something inhuman was stripped of me that night I locked myself in the diary, and that was the only part of me that continued to exist.”

His words were pleading, a desire- a need- to have Harry believe in them. And for a moment, Harry felt himself soften at the sincerity of them. 

Only for a moment.

“That's a real beautiful story. Got another one? I could use a laugh,” he sneered, tearing through the drawers of both bedside tables. “Where is my wand?”

Tom sighed. “You don't have to believe me. I didn't think you would. That's why I had to curse you to silence. You never know whose ears are listening. If word spread that I got out of the diary, he would be after both us. More ardently than he already is, at the very least in your situation.”

“Why?” Harry asked, feeling his patience wearing thin. “Why would he want me dead anymore than he already does?”

Tom blinking owlishly. “Because you helped me. You can condemn me all you want, Harry, but you're the one who killed Ginevra that night. Not me,” his words were soft, as if to comfort him even as he accused of something so heinous.

Harry shook his head, something scratching his throat. “No. You made me. Somehow, you made me.”

Tom rose from the chair, taking several cautious steps forward until he stood before Harry, still much taller than him despite his recent growth spurt. Tom reached out, fingers brushing against his jaw as Harry jerked away from his touch, flinching as if Tom was fire and acid and all things that would consume and destroy him.

“You wanted to free me. You trusted me. I made you do no more than you were willing to do.”

“Get out,” Harry said, his voice low and rough and as threatening as he could manage. He clenched his jaw, the crowns of his teeth grinding so viciously over each other that he thought his entire mouth might shatter into a million fragments of bone and tissue. “Leave me alone.”

To his immense surprise, Tom nodded, turning away from Harry and gathering a cloak that had been draped over the back of the chair he sat in. “Very well. I'll leave, but only for now. You might not believe me, but it doesn't make my concern for you any less legitimate. I will still keep in touch with you.”

Turning back to Harry, he tapped a long finger on his cheek bone, just below his right eye. “The patch can't be removed until tomorrow morning, taking it off early will compromise the potions I've treated it with. And do read that newspaper when you get a chance. From what I've read, this Sirius Black seems quite intent on harming you.”

And with that, he was gone, the door clicking shut as Hedwig hooted at his departure, as if to bid him farewell.

The headlining article that morning had been about Sirius Black's attack on an unnamed muggle house the previous night. One muggle injured. Alert all authorities immediately if spotted. Do not approach. Dangerous and Mad. Former servant to He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named.

Harry tossed the paper from him, making a frustrated grunt. There were two Lord Voldemorts running about. One who is Tom, and one who is not but also once was. A deranged prisoner was hunting him. Ginny was still dead and he was still the one who did it. He wasn't even sure of his memory of last night and why it conflicted so much with the reports the Ministry made.

He looked up from the table.

His wand was just underneath the bed, perhaps kicked under from his hasty search of the blankets.

-xXx-

Tom wound his way through the crowd of Diagon Alley, parents dragging their children through the last of their shopping for school, children whining in that frequency that made mothers cluck their tongue. He kept his head bowed low, his hair curling around the edge of the soft cap he wore. It was a bit too hot for such adornments, but the precaution was necessary. If a bit extreme.

He was certain that nobody alive today would recognize him as the young Lord Voldemort, before his looks and charm had been so heavily distorted by dark magic and rituals. Well, nobody except a certain Headmaster.

'Former headmaster,' he corrected. 

No, Tom Riddle had surely all but faded away. A handsome, promising young student who never lived up to his potential. Disappeared into obscurity. 

He took a turn down an alley way, the crowd substantially thinner. Substantially less savory. 

He smiled a rare, genuine smile at the thought of Harry. He was a stubborn one. Typical Gryffindor. Headstrong, too emotional for his own good. He supposed it was admiral, how he stood his ground, baring teeth that weren't nearly as pointy or scary as he thought. Like a kitten imitating a lion.

It was certainly not ideal, starting from square one in earning the boy's trust again. He, like many Gryffindors, could be loyal to a fault once it was earned, but Harry was not the most generous in that department. It did not take a genius or a muggle therapist to see that his tumultuous and abusive home life had made the boy distrustful, doubtful of any adult no matter how kind and trusting they seemed. Tom had spent a great deal of time within his head to know that he was even becoming a bit more shrewd to Dumbledore, avoiding his glances and skirting around questions.

Lying to him.

It made him proud, if he were being honest.

Tom wandered through Knockturn Alley, slowing by shop windows and inclining his head in interest at the displayed trinkets. A witch with a broken nose and glass eye stood only several feet away, calling out to come and see her collection of blood vials.

'Unicorn! Merfolk! Siren! Virgin! Each only 40 galleons! A right bargain!'

Tom considered her for a moment. Merfolk blood could certainly be useful, several potions popping in mind that he wouldn't mind having a go at. The Dursley family would be suitable guinea pigs, he thought, a wry grin twisting and marring his features.

No. He doubted it was even authentic Merfolk blood. Forty galleons was too much a bargain for that.

Still, the idea of teaching the Dursleys a lesson or two lingered in his mind, and he stepped into the shop, hoping to find something a bit more genuine. 

He shivered at the remembrance of drinking the polyjuice potion, his skin bulging and sagging until he resembled Vernon Dursley, giving the Aurors an account of an event that had not happened. As proud and delighted as he was- watching Harry slice and dice that wretched woman until she resembled raw meat- it would do no good for the authorities to make wind of what had occurred.  
Sirius Black had proved to be a handy excuse. A bit of memory work here and there, disorienting them until none of them could make heads or tails of whom the true attacker had been. Damaging the property a bit more- exploding a door out of its frame, bursting a window. 

From there, it was only a matter of issuing a few unforgivables to alert the Aurors. A pluck of the hair and tossing the patriarch into the cupboard beneath the stairs- an irony he paused to chuckle at- Tom had assumed the role of Vernon Dursley and told the harrowing tale.

'That escaped loon came bursting in! Did something to my family- confounded them! Then he went after the boy! Chased him out the door and down the street!

It had, of course, been successful, though he rather loathed having to take the form of that oafish muggle. Just the thought of it made his lips curl into a snarl. Filthy.

But it had all been for Harry. The Ministry sent Marge to St. Mungo's, where she would be healed and obliviated. They had offered they Dursleys several healing potions, but Tom had vehemently denied them- no doubt the muggles would rather suffer through several days of lingering effects of the confundus before accepting magical help.

He paused in front of a display of potions, slim and oblong bottles of varying colors and clarity, yellowing tags wrapped around the necks of them with their price. He picked up a bottle of something dark silver, metallic and shimmery as he held it up to the light. 

“Elixir of Odium,” a voice said, and he turned to find the shopkeep- an attractive woman with waist length straight black hair and dark olive skin- approaching him. “Even a drop of it can inspire one to give in to their darkest and most poisonous hatred. Turn friends into enemies, lovers into bitter rivals.”

He quirked a brow. “What if I just wanted it for some fun? As in making a family tear each other a part? Literally.”

She grinned, gray eyes flicking over him slowly, drinking in his appearance before leaning forward, exposing more of her breasts to him. “I'd say you and I have a very different idea of fun.”

He frowned, settling the bottle back on the table before leaving, ignoring her calls to come back. Snake oil salesmen. Knockturn Alley was overrun with them.

No matter, he could teach the Dursleys a lesson without their assistance.

When he was through with them, they would regret ever laying a finger on his Harry.

His horcrux.

-xXx-

Beauxbatons really was a lovely school, with all the charm and romance one would come to expect from France. It was smaller than Hogwarts had been, and the entire castle was raised on large, arched pillars over the river that ran through the countryside. The water was clear and pristine, the brilliant rock bed below the surface displaying an array of colors. Of greens and grays and blues. Wildflowers grew along the side of it, lilies and daisies racing on the water's edge, coloring the landscape in yellows and pinks. 

The castle itself, from where it sat above the running water, was built in white stones, ivy growing over top it, snaking over the rough texture of the exterior. It stood clear among the world, no trees to hide behind, no mountains to be nestled in. It was surrounded only by a large valley of sweet and spicy herbs, of aromatic flowers. There was, not too far in the distance, a stable house, equally as stately as the castle itself. The silvery sheen of the Unicorns' coats could be seen from across the way, brilliant in the glow of the orange sun. 

Really, it was very lovely, with high ceilings that contained picturesque and dizzying murals, so intricate that one would make themselves sick as they leaned back to take in the view of it all, turning about in circles. Paintings of all things lovely; of Aphrodite born from sea foam, of swans swooning through a blue sky, dancing around chubby cherubs with protruding bellies and full cheeks, golden curls. With tall windows and parapets, stained glass inlaid so that when the sun shone through it created a kaleidoscope of colors.

It was stunning, but it was not home. It was not Hogwarts.

The soft, silken tendrils of a willow tree shrouded Harry from the world beyond it, from the field and the gardens that enveloped the castle. It was cool and dark, bits of sunlight streaming through the small spaces left between the slim and looming branches. It was the first day of term, and he had already started off on quite the wrong note.

He was supposed to be in class- History of Magic to be exact, but it had all been too much. Too overwhelming.

From the feel of Hermione's small arms as they wrapped around him, and the hurt look on her face when he had not returned the embraced, slinking away from her and disappearing into the crowd (Ginny was dead and it was all his fault and his parents were killed protecting him and he was cursed and he would not drag anyone else down with him, no matter how much his heart ached at the absence.) From the food served at breakfast which was alright but not like Hogwarts's feasts- croissants and fruit and soft cheeses instead of hearty porridge and plump sausage which burst with oil when pierced with the prongs of a fork. 

From the tilted accents. From the unfamiliar faces.

But he had managed. He had gotten through the morning well enough, quiet and to himself and with his head bowed. It hadn't been until lunch that it had decided he couldn't do it any further, when he had risen from his seat- plate untouched, and left the hall with a racing heart. A letter clutched in his fist, dropped on his lap by an unknown owl, with his name written on the envelope in a terribly familiar scrawl. 

History of Magic had started ten minutes ago, and instead of sitting in class, he was hidden by the shadow of a looming tree, a wrinkled letter from Tom Riddle in his hands.

He toyed with the envelope, fingernails dragging over the wax seal until there was bits of smooth silver wax stuck under them. He would not open it. Not now. Perhaps not ever. He unwound the cord bunching together his rucksack, tossing the letter inside, where it would be out of sight though not out of mind. He couldn't imagine Tom ever would be.

He had wound himself in to the wrinkled organ that was his brain, wrapping around the synapses and the amygdala and all the other primitive parts. The parts that dictated fear, terror. 

He stifled a yawn, pressing a hand against his mouth. He hardly slept the night prior, a bundle of nervous energy about the unfamiliar surroundings, the place that was an impostor of the school he had known (it was fine, but it wasn't home) and even when he had managed to fall asleep, he was startled awake by a nightmare.

Blood warped pages, dark blue eyes flashing crimson.

He was haunted by the ghosts of things he couldn't quite forget, things he couldn't really remember. 

And yet, the air was cool and it was dark and quiet and he could hear the water as it ran over the rock bed, could hear the distant sound of songbirds tweeting into the morning. And his head fell to his shoulder, heavy, eyes blinking into the world that became less focused around him.

He wondered if it was possible to hallucinate if you were tired enough. To see things that weren't there as your brain ebbed between consciousness. It must be.

He could have sworn he saw a large and mangy black dog in the distance, only seconds before his eyes closed for good, snoring softly beneath the canopy of leaves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all enjoyed! Follow me on tumblr at reneehartblog for sneak peeks, fandoms, and any answers to questions! 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	3. A Dog, A Visit, and A Seed of Doubt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thanks to everyone who has left reviews, kudos and subscribed! You are all wonderful!

'Not right.'

That was the only thought running through Sirius Black's head as he circled nervously in a tall patch of lavender; his tail tucked between his scrawny hind legs, a low whine emitting from between his teeth. It was not right. Something was not right with Harry.

He didn't know how he knew this, he simply did.

When had first seen the boy, hunched over in the garden in Privet Drive, hands dirty as they tugged up weeds and tossed them into a small bin beside him, he had been overjoyed, an energy overcoming him that he had not felt in over a decade. He had fought the impulse to bark, trotting down the road until his canine tongue lopped out from between his teeth, his breath coming out in pants. 

He slowed when he approached the home, a ball of anxiousness, desperation. But he refrained from causing a scene- muggles weren't always kind to stray dogs, especially when they looked as feral as he knew he did. He had spent the better part of the day prior outrunning a muggle who wielded a long metal stick, the end looped off into a circle. He rode around in a veehickle he thought they were called, seemingly at every corner Sirius ran to.

He had no idea of where the man would take him should he catch him, but the thought of being caught alone was enough for instinct to take over, hackles raising in protest as he snapped out with sharp teeth, catching a gloved hand in his mouth.

Caught meant cold. Isolation. Iron bars interlocking before you, trapping you within a too small space. It meant meager meals and somber bellows of nearby inmates. It meant being forgotten- by friends and society and the world. It meant unable to sleep, awaking in cold sweats in the middle of the night when dreams soured and turned dark and anguished as dementors roamed through in patrol, unable to breathe without feeling as if the prison of your rib cage was crushing, cutting into you.

No, caught was never good, and mangy mutts such as himself were surely not be treated well by muggles. And so he hid, lurking around the manicured bushes that separated Harry's home from the others on the block. He watched Harry for some time, the day hot and searing the flesh beneath his black fur. He could see nothing but a mop of untidy black hair, clinging to Harry's head in sweat. The collar of his shirt was damp as well, and occasionally he would pause to wipe his forearm across his face, careful to keep his dirty hand limp and turned away. 

When he finally stood, it was to empty the bin of weeds and dead leaves he clipped from the blossoming flowers, kicking a spade out of his way as he hoisted the bin up and trudged closer to where Sirius sat, the garbage cans tucked by the side of the home. It was the first time he could get a good look at the boy, and Sirius rose to a standing position, all four paws excitedly pounding at the ground below him in turn. 

The familiarity made his heart ache, a tightness constricting his chest uncomfortably. He looked so similar to James- it was as if Sirius had been plucked up and deposited into a pensieve, and was instead looking at a remembrance- the memory- of his long ago friend. His hair was unruly, curling around the ends of his ears, the frames of his wire glasses. The glasses- much too round and large for his thin face- sat on the bridge of his narrow nose, magnifying the eyes behind them. Green. Brilliantly and defiantly green. They were Lily's eyes, and they sat below the thin white lines of a scar, fissures burrowed into his skin. 

Upon closer inspection, he really didn't look like James at all. Perhaps enough to fool a casual observer, a former classmate of theirs or a teacher, or at first, quick glance. But to Sirius, the boy was a haphazard copy of the man he once knew, more different than similar the more he looked. 

He was far too thin, lanky. Too thin for the broad shoulders he was developing. His gait was cautious, bowed as if he was trying to make himself smaller to the world- so unlike the confident and near arrogant stride that James traipsed about Hogwarts with even as an eleven year old. His shoulders slouched, and when he lifted his head to gaze at the world about him, it was with a hesitation to his eyes, a calculating quality to them that looked far too old and world-worn on one so young. James's own gaze was hungry, covetous. The world was his to explore and his hazel eyes never shied away from the prospect of it, never a shadow of doubt to them that he belonged.

He was nothing like James, or Lily.

He was Harry. Just Harry.

And he was wonderful.

He forgot himself in his excitement, feeling young and free for the first time in so many years. His tail thumped against the ground, a whine turned into a clipped yapping sound.

Harry startled, the lid of the garbage falling shut as he dropped the now empty weed bin. His eyes were wide, his lips twisting as he looked expectantly to the bushes Sirius had hidden himself in. The fingers of his right hand curled around something- his wand? - as he said, “Who's there?” Then, after a second, he swallowed thickly and whispered, “Tom?”

He took a step forward, his wand now slipping out from his sleeve and settling in the palm of his hand, when a veehickle (smaller than the one the man who was chasing him had driven in) pulled up. Harry twisted his hand behind his back to hide his wand, moving back until he was flat against the side of the house, the drivers of the contraption seemingly ambivalent about whether or not they hit him. The doors- four of them- all opened in quick succession, a large, red faced man and thin woman stepping out of one side; a plump, older woman with gray hair and a boy about Harry's age stepping out of the other. 

The older woman, propping herself up on a wooden cane, turned to Harry with a suspicious look to her eyes. “What are you up to, boy? You're filthy!” she admonished cruelly, the venom in her words causing something to stir within Sirius. Something protective. 

“Aunt Petunia asked me to tend to her garden,” he said, a slight exasperation as he spoke. It was the same way Sirius and James had spoken when they felt as if they were being punished for something unjust.

The woman shook her head, swinging the cane as if to balance herself to take a step only to smack it across Harry's ankle, making him wince. “Clean yourself up! You should have started dinner ages ago and now we've got to wait for you to shower,” she barked. 

With a resigned sigh, Harry nodded, mumbling that he would be quick. The mysterious noise in the bushes forgotten, he disappeared into the house, followed closely by his muggle family, muttering unkindly about him. 

Sirius refused to leave, not until night had fallen and Harry had bolted from the house with impressive speed, not bothering to close the door as it swung on its hinges. There was screaming and shouting coming from inside the house, the large man following Harry for only a moment before turning back to the chaos inside the home in a panic. And Sirius, worried and fearful for his godson, chased after him.

He followed him to the Knight Bus. To the Leaky Cauldron. And then all the way to Beauxbatons, turning into his human form long enough to apparate before turning back to Padfoot. Several days had been spent observing him when he could, when he wasn't hidden behind a wall or classroom. 

And something was not right. Not as if he knew him well enough to truly know what was or wasn't out of character. Not that he was applying his knowledge of James and how he had reacted when something wasn't right. 

There are just some things that do not have to be said. Slumped shoulders, purple bags beneath his eyes, weighing them down. He curled up beneath the canopy of leaves, looking too small for his school robes, practically hidden by the foliage and the heavy shadows they cast. And he fell sound asleep, in the middle of the day. He no doubt should have been in class, or at least skipping with a group of friends- not by himself, huddled at the wide base of the willow. 

'Not right.'

-xXx-

A week had passed since returning to school and Harry allowed himself to slip into the banality of school life; the routine a comfort, the mundane a relief. They had been re-sorted- a special ceremony held for the transfer students in private before the official ceremony began for first years. Like Hogwarts, Beauxbatons had four Houses as well: Feu, Terre, Eau and Air. Hermione leaned forward, whispering in his ear that they were the four elements, the four facets of magic when they were broken down to their very core, raw and stripped. She went on to say that she had read about it, that the founder of the school- a witch whose name he had already forgotten- believed that all magic and its uses could be categorized into the four elements, and that each witch and wizard held a magical core, a signature, that was simply more inclined to one than the others.

This was, of course, before he had tried to avoid her, fearing that he might lose her too. 

He had been sorted into Incendie, the Fire House Hermione had said, her mutterings a bit louder than she realized. She into Terre. Earth. 

Avoiding her became considerably easier when they did not share a common room, it turned out. Though he felt terrible, knowing she had no other friends- Ron and his brothers had not accepted the invitation to Beauxbatons, choosing instead to remain at home and to receive tutors.

Harry's common room was hardly a solace however, with or without her presence. He grew anxious in his dormitory, irritated by the furtive glances, whispers behind cupped hands. Hogwarts had long since tired of the novelty of him- the Famous Harry Potter- but Beauxbatons did not, and his new housemates had no interest in hiding their intrigue. And so, with an annoyed grunt and sigh one afternoon when he could hear nothing but giggles and his name being spoken in a hush, he packed his bags and headed to the gardens, knowing that Hermione would surely be in the library.

It was overcast, the clouds gray and melancholy and it reminded him vaguely of the world within the diary; the colors unsaturated and diluted. He half expected to see Tom sitting beneath the willow tree, as he was quite keen on sitting under the one oak tree by the lake at Hogwarts. 

It was strange, knowing such intimate details about the Dark Lord. He had long since decided everything that Riddle said to him was a lie, saying whatever needed to be said to achieve his ends. But there were things Harry had noticed, quirks that were so habitual that he doubted they would be worth the time or energy for Riddle to fake.

That he furrowed his brow, bit his lip when he was in thought. 

That he never smiled unless it was predatory, all teeth and as if he had gotten away with something either very clever or very cruel. 

And he was vain. Not in the sense that Harry thought he placed attractiveness above any other asset, but in the sense that he was constantly smoothing out his robes, reaching a hand to his head and ensuring that all his hair lay flat and in place. There were moments where his gaze would flicker, his lip twitch, and Harry thought that if he could, Tom might have reached out and fixed Harry's own hair. 

It was still jarring, how handsome and proper and normal he looked.

It was perverse. Monsters were supposed to be frightening, with red eyes and sharpened teeth and an otherworldly tint to their skin. Hooked noses and warts and jagged claws. 

He knew he was being childish, but it had been easier when he thought of Voldemort as some sort of inhuman demon.

He bent low, sweeping a hand out to brush aside the tendrils of the willow, only to stop short, frowning. “Oh...sorry,” he mumbled. He had not realized that someone was already there, a girl whom he thought he recognized from Hogwarts. 

“No reason to be sorry,” she hummed, her voice light as if in sing song. There was a distinct air about her, a lightness to her. Her blonde hair fell just below her shoulders, limp curls that looked as if she had been distracted halfway through her morning ablutions and left it partially undone. Her eyes were light gray, almost silvery in the light that hit them, streaming through where Harry had pulled aside the leaves. 

But most peculiar was that a loose crown sat atop her head, made entirely of flowers. Some were quite pretty and vibrant, others were hideous- the color of straw, dry and crunchy. He thought that he even saw a mushroom in the mix.

He pursed his lips, feeling as if he should say something but not sure of what, only for his jaw to slack open a second later when he caught sight of the dog beside her. She had one hand rested on his shoulder blades, idly petting him as he looked curiously at Harry, his head tilted to the side, some unidentifiable slab of meat between its massive paws, half-eaten.

It looked like a stray- not unlike the one he had seen on Privet Drive before the Knight Bus appeared. Odd, though a coincidence. Surely they were not the same.

“I didn't know you could have dogs,” Harry said, stepping forward and releasing the wisps of leaves so that they fell behind him, swaying as they curtained off the rest of the world. 

The girl- he couldn't remember her name, try as he might- shrugged. “You can't. I saw him in the gardens and he looked so hungry, I couldn't leave him.” She turned to look at the dog, a small smile gracing her lips. “He's very sweet, not afraid of people at all. I wonder if he's been abandoned.”

Harry frowned, feeling sorry for the creature. It was large and it's visible teeth were menacing, but he could see the indentations of ribs, bare patches of skin where fur was bitten off in either a fight or in a desperate attempt to rid an itch of fleas. He moved closer, tentatively, lowering his hand towards its snout- he thought he might have heard that it was the correct way to approach a dog once. 

But the dog- just as friendly as the girl had said- did not hesitate in leaning forward, licking Harry's proffered hand with a wet and scratchy tongue. 

“He likes you,” she said, appraising, leaning back on her ankles. 

Harry smiled as he settled down onto the grass, running a hand through the dog's fur as he continued to paw eagerly at him, nudging his wet nose against Harry's cheek. “I've always wanted a dog. Asked my aunt and uncle once for one but they said as far as they were concerned, they already had one,” he said, not sure of why he was saying such things to someone he hardly even knew. He couldn't even remember what House she had belonged to when Hogwarts had closed.

The dog growled, briefly, before whining as he nudged his nose once more into Harry's face.

“I don't think you're a dog, for what it's worth, Harry,” she said, and he blushed in embarrassment. How terrible to not know someone's name when they knew yours!

As if sensing his predicament, she added, “I'm Luna. I was in Ravenclaw, but now I'm in Eau.” If she thought he was rude, she didn't seem it, her small smile not leaving her face, a serene look about her. 

He decided he liked her. She was subdued, her very presence calming, and she spoke in a way that was reminiscent of poetry and fairy tales. It was as if someone had managed to capture all the awe and intrigue, the curiosity and wonder he felt when he was an eleven year old learning of a new and magical world, and placed it within her. 

She named the dog Argos, and Harry agreed that it was very fitting indeed, though he wasn't quite sure of why. And he spent the better part of an afternoon sitting beside her, Argos between them as he eventually returned to his meat, saliva dripping from his maw, his homework forgotten.

-xXx-

Tom continued to send Harry letters, and Harry continued to ignore them. He thought of burning them, watching the parchment burn and furl with the heat, turning to ash. But- for reasons he couldn't discern- he settled for just tossing them in his trunk, a growing stash of them coating the bottom, hidden beneath his clothes. He wondered if there would be any repercussions for ignoring the wizard, but pushed the thought from his mind.

Some time had passed, and his life had a reached a semblance of normal. There was no need to avoid Hermione, as she took it upon herself to ignore him as well. He was surprised by how badly it stung when she lowered her head as they crossed paths, but reminded himself it was necessary.

He saw Luna from time to time, though they often sat in relative silence. She was a bit...unusual. She spoke of creatures that he doubted even existed, but he never dared to say anything. It might have been naive, but he quite liked that she preferred to blame the nargles for her stolen things than to blame the more likely culprits of her housemates. She made him flower crowns, similar to the one she had been wearing when they first met, with the promise that each flower, each herb, had been selected to ward off some unsightly creature. 

She had shown him where the kitchens were, and the elves that had worked there- thin, knobby creatures with leathery skin and bulbous eyes- had gotten so used to them that there was often some scraps left out for them to take. Argos would meet them in the garden- he was intelligent, and Harry wondered why an owner might abandon such a loyal companion- and they fed him the scraps. 

It had been a pleasant routine, until four days had gone by where Argos did not meet them among the lavender. 

“Perhaps he was just lost and his family found him?” Luna had suggested, and Harry hoped she was correct. He had grown quite fond of him, and he hated to think something might have happened.

-xXx-

The morning of October second was a chaotic one, the dining hall a flurry of twirling robes, robin's egg blue, as students flitted about the tables, chatting with friends at different tables. Harry had wondered what had stirred them all into such a fit, sitting down at his own table and pulling a forgotten copy of the newspaper towards him. He reached a hand out, grabbing the ladle to spoon some eggs onto his plate only to drop it, scrambled eggs spilling across the table.

Sirius Black had made headlines once more, after he attempted to break into the Burrow.

No one was hurt.

The Weasleys were relocated for the time being.

Aurors were guarding the premises.

Sirius Black was injured but escaped.

And he was once again nowhere to be found.

-xXx-

Harry had left breakfast early, leaving to scrawl a hasty letter to Ron, asking if he was alright and wishing him and his family well. He hadn't spoken to him in some weeks, the letters growing further and further apart until they ceased coming entirely. But he was worried, and he knew he would crumple under the weight of guilt if he didn't reach out to his friend. Tying the letter to Hedwig's leg and freeing her from the owlry, he went about his day, his head full; his thoughts erratic.

Why had Sirius Black gone after the Weasleys?

What did they have that a servant of Voldemort's might want?

Perhaps it had something to do with Ginny? Tom had said that Voldemort was still out there- the one who had murdered his parents, the parasite that fed off of Quirrell's soul and body in his first year.

Did he know that his younger self was out there somewhere, and did he figure out that Ginny's death had been the catalyst?

Had he sent Black out to investigate?

It was confusing, and he still did not quite know how two copies of the same being could exist at once. They had separate bodies, but did they share the same mind? A conscious that transcended distance? Tom had said that he was reading up on Voldemort's legacy- was his knowledge and memories limited to when he had been trapped in the diary, leaving years- decades- of time unaccounted for? 

Would the allegiance that Voldemort's followers pledged to him, offer the same loyalty to Tom?

He wrinkled his nose at that. He didn't think Voldemort would like that very much. He didn't seem like the charitable sort to share power with another, even if it was a version of himself.

He spent his classes dazed and distracted, earning himself a detention after he forgot to stir his potion at the appropriate intervals; nearly resulting in an explosion the professor had just managed to contain. When his free period came around, he was thankful for the respite, bounding from the castle and into the garden.

He inhaled the air greedily, crisp and fresh. The air within the castle seemed stale and pungent, like there wasn't enough oxygen in it to fill his lungs. The peace that he had found was slipping from his grasp, the dams he had carefully built and structured crumpling.

For a few weeks, he was able to forget about Tom, Voldemort and Sirius Black. It hadn't been normal necessarily- he still wasn't home, and Ron and Hermione's absence continued to ache in his chest- but it was calm. There had been certainty in knowing that Luna would meet him in the kitchen for lunch, that Argos would be in the garden, hidden by the lavender. 

But Argos had disappeared and Sirius Black was not only in the news again but had attacked his best friend's house in the middle of the night. Why?

He slowed his pace as he wandered through the rose bushes. They were bare, clipped by students for use in their Potions assignment. He thought he overheard some of his housemates talking about love potions, and how roses were necessary for them. How terribly cliché.

A hand reached out, twirling a clipped stem. He pulled it back, a bead of blood on his finger from where a thorn pierced it. He almost rubbed it over his cloak but stopped himself when he remembered they were no longer a forgiving black but a light blue; the blood would make an unsightly stain. Instead, he wrapped his lips around it, sucking gently. It tasted like pennies.

Something rustled, whined.

He twisted in the direction, a breath leaving him. It was Argos, and though Harry knew it was incredibly selfish to be thankful that Argos had not been found by his family, he didn't care, running up to the dog as a wide grin stretched over his face.

“Hey, Argos! Luna and I thought we weren't going to see you again,” he said, feeling a bit strange for talking to an animal. But the dog seemed to enjoy the attention, and Harry ran a his hands over the matted coat. He petted him enthusiastically, frowning when he saw the front paw that he kept lifted, bent to keep it towards his chest. The fur was shiny, hard and clumped together.

“Is that...blood?” Harry asked, gently running his fingers over the injured leg. Argos only whined, pulling it out of his grasp. “What happened?” The blood was dry, older, and he could see a thin cut that ran down a good length of his leg, clotted with blood.

Harry pulled his bag off his shoulders, digging through it until he found his charms book. He didn't have any experience with healing spells, but perhaps there were some simple ones- at least some charms that might ease the pain. Argos was patient as ever, laying on the ground and resting his head on Harry's knee as he flipped through his book, pages crinkling in his perusal.

He wasn't sure how long he sat huddled like that, but he heard someone approach, and he shook his head, raising it from the book.

“Luna, what do you know about healing spells? Argos was attacked and-” he paused mid sentence, words dying on his tongue when he turned to see Tom Riddle standing behind him, a somewhat amused expression on his face.

“While I'm flattered you think I carry the same presence as a twelve year old girl, I'm sorry to disappoint,” Tom said, inclining his chin as he looked over Harry and at the dog splayed over his lap. “What are you doing with that mutt?”

Harry scowled. “That mutt refuses to leave me alone. But as for the dog, he's injured,” he snapped, repressing a smile when Tom's lip twitched in fleeting irritation.

“You won't find anything to help it in there. Healing spells come at a much higher grade level than your own. You'd have better luck with Murtlap Essence. The infirmary should have some; just tell the mediwitch a professor has sent you to replenish their personal stocks for emergencies and you shouldn't have a problem getting any. Avoid Dittany, however, as it has several herbs that are toxic to animals,” he said, taking a long step around Harry so he was standing in front of him instead of behind. Argos lifted his head, following his movement carefully. Tom narrowed his eyes at it.

“Er...thanks...” Harry said after a moment, feeling uncomfortable and flustered. “What are you doing here?” he asked suddenly, looking around at the grounds. There were several students he could see off in the distance, but no teachers or anyone who might question what the strange man was doing on the premises. 

Tom smirked. “Grief counselor. Sent by the Ministry. Here to ensure that all of our transfers are acclimating well. Madame Maxime and I spoke before I came out here,” he answered. Harry merely rose a brow, not wanting to admit that he was impressed by his manipulations. It couldn't have been an easy task to forge Ministry documents. 

Turning his attention to Argos, he asked, his voice bitter, “What do you want? Is it because of the letters?”

“No, though it is terribly rude to not maintain your end of correspondence. My visit here has many reasons. First of which, I should ask how you're doing? I read of Black's attack on the Weasley residence. It must be hard on you, given how close you were,” he said. 

He sounded quite sincere, a kindness and concern in his eyes that reminded Harry of the time they shared together in the diary, when he had thought Tom was his friend. But he wasn't his friend, and he had used him. And he was the reason that Ginny was dead and Hogwarts was closed and why Harry was afraid to become friends with anyone other than a forgotten stray-

He sneered, lips pulling back in disgust as he felt his voice darken, deeper with every day that passed. “You have no right to talk about them. Not after what you did.” 

Tom opened his mouth, only to close it as if thinking better of what he was going to say. No doubt a correction on who exactly had done what. After a second, he said, “I wasn't asking about them. I was asking about you.”

“I'm fantastic,” Harry said, his voice bitter and laced with sarcasm. He turned his attention back to Argos, scratching behind his ears. The dog however was hardly paying attention to Harry, dark eyes fixing on Tom, unwavering. His lips were pulled back, revealing his yellowing teeth, and his muscles felt tense beneath Harry's touch. It was as if he were just waiting for the command, the go ahead, to lurch off from where he was lying and attack. 

Tom's own gaze had settled on the dog, brows knitted, worrying his lower lip between his teeth. He was in deep thought, and Harry flicked his gaze back and forth between Argos and Tom, not certain of what was so peculiar about the canine that Tom couldn't take his eyes from it.

As if sensing that he was under great scrutiny, Argos whined suddenly, raising a hind leg and bending as he began licking at the exposed flesh there. Tom averted his gaze, lips curled in repulsion.

Clearing his throat, Tom turned his attention back to Harry. “The other reason for my stopping by- seeing as how you seem intent on not even reading my letters- is to inform you that you will have another visitor. Tomorrow I believe, but it could be later. Depends on how the investigation with the Weasleys goes. Rumor has it that Dumbledore is planning to stop by.”

Harry perked at that, pulling himself up so he was standing. He was still at least a foot shorter than Tom, forcing him to raise his chin to make eye contact, but it was better than having to have to crane his neck, looking up to down-turned eyes. “Really? Why are you telling me?” he asked, immediately suspicious of the older wizard. Surely Tom would only tell him if he thought there was something to gain.

Tom rose a brow. “Because I care about you, Harry. And I thought you should know when someone is coming to visit with the intent on lying to you.”

He laughed. Actually laughed. 

“If that isn't the pot calling the kettle black,” he said, reaching down to grab his bag, slipping it onto his shoulder before giving Argos a pat on the head. “Dumbledore doesn't lie to me. If anyone's been lying, it's me. Thanks to you, I can't seem to do anything but. What has he even got to lie to me about?”

“Sirius Black,” he answered. “He'll warn you about him, but he won't tell you who he really is.”

“What do you mean?” Harry asked, brows knitted, abandoning his earlier decision that Tom spoke only in lies and empty promises. “He was a servant for him. That's all.”

The dog whined, but Harry paid him no attention, his focus solely on Tom. 

The older wizard arched a brow, picked at a piece of lint on his cloak. “Of course. But there's more to him than that. Dumbledore won't consider it worth sharing. There's quite a bit he doesn't consider worth sharing isn't there?”

Harry scowled. “How would I know? Why don't you tell me then?”

He feigned innocence, widening his blue eyes. “Why should I have to tell you when you're so certain that Dumbledore will?”

Harry felt his face redden, the tips of his ears turning scarlet as he became irritated, flustered with the conversation. “Forget it, I've got class anyway,” he said dismissively, taking a step towards the castle only for Tom to reach out, clasp a hand onto his shoulder and pull him back, his grip remaining even as Harry turned to face him once more.

“Why do you trust him? He's the man who handed you off to the Dursleys when your parents died, the one who was content to send you back there after each school year. He knows the answer to every question before you even ask it, yet even when you do ask he withholds information. Why? What has he got to gain from that? What could possibly be so vital that not even you can know, even when it directly involves you?” His words were coaxing, soft, and Harry frowned.

Unbidden, his thoughts turned back to his first year of school, the cryptic manner in which the old man had spoken. The promise that Voldemort would be back, with no explanation as to why. Or to what he would want with Harry, why Harry was so special to begin with.

Why Harry had been targeted in the first place, his parents dead and he alive and orphaned and famous only to be shoved into a corner of the world below a set of creaky stairs. Bruised and starved.

Tom's hand moved from Harry's shoulder, slipping up the curve of his face until he was cupping it in his hand, a firm hold. “You cannot trust him, Harry. He is a man who is fighting a forgotten war and warlords are never kind. Honesty doesn't win war. And he is merely grooming you to be the perfect soldier.”

As if startled from a trance, Harry shirked away from Tom's touch, took several steps back. There was a darkness to his eyes, shadows making the green deeper, muddier. He looked conflicted, confused. He did not like the words that Tom was saying, though he had no argument against them. The fact of the matter was that he didn't know Dumbledore- not very well. He knew he was respected, trusted to some wizarding families, despised by others. He knew he was a bit batty, though he had his suspicions that it was an act. Make believe.

And if so, what was it a cover for?

“I-I've got class, Tom,” he stuttered out before making his leave. And this time, Tom let him, his attention turning to the stray which had taken off in the opposite direction.

-xXx-

Sirius didn't stop running until he was beyond the gates of the school, through the valley and over a bridge that stood atop a river. It was a little over a kilometer away from the school, but he found himself in the small French village in no time, wandering into an alley. 

He was exhausted, and his leg throbbed in agony, quivering as he held it up to keep the weight off of it. But the pain was forgotten, his thoughts returning to Harry and that odd boy who had been talking to him.

Who was he? He had claimed to be a grief counselor for the Ministry but he looked far too young- older than Harry, sure, but only by a handful of years. And Harry had seemed familiar with him- not in the way he would be with some random grunt. In fact, he had known him before he had even made such introductions.

But how? He clearly wasn't a student or a teacher, and the way he spoke of Dumbledore-

Sirius growled before he even realized he was doing so, the reaction so carnal and visceral. There were many people who certainly disagreed with and distrusted the older wizard. And none of them were the sort that should be associating with Harry.

His worried pacing- a frantic circle in the small space of the alley- came to an abrupt stop. What if the boy had connections to You-Know-Who? He was too young to have been around for the First War, but Sirius wasn't so stupid as to believe that there wasn't still a great deal of sympathy for him and his ideology. He had spent twelve years of his life with nothing but iron bars and warped screaming to know that his death did little to hinder his followers. Each day was filled with the promises that he would return, each night with the desperate pleas for it to be soon.

He wouldn't be surprised if the followers that had managed to evade jail- either by having excellent ties or turning in others- had gone on to tell their children that it was only a matter of time, raising them with the same archaic prejudices. And Harry-

Harry would just about be a beacon, a prize for either side to claim.

Sirius whined, pawing at the ground and lowering his head. Peter was out there, masquerading as a common house pet (vermin was more appropriate) and yet, Sirius knew his duty was here, to Harry. If he was in danger- dark wizards breaking into the school to turn him against Dumbledore in preparation for something- than Sirius owed it to James and Lily to do what he could to protect him.

He'd have to tell someone.

It was not an ideal prospect. He would barely have time to even so much as hug the boy before he'd be hauled off, locked back within Azkaban. Or given the Dementor's Kiss. But it would protect him, and wasn't that all that mattered? Wasn't that what all of this was about? Harry?

No, this was the right thing to do. This was what James and Lily would want of him, revenge and Peter be damned. He would find Dumbledore and reveal himself to the man- if anyone would listen to his concern because having him arrested, it would be him. He might have been cryptic, dotty at the best of times, but he was no fool. Whether or not Dumbledore believed him capable of the crimes for which he was convicted, he would still come to Harry's aid. 

He nodded in his resolution, knowing the action looked a bit silly as a dog. He would visit Harry once more, however. One more time, just to say good-bye. He had only known him for some weeks, only for some hours at a time, but he had grown attached to him, in a way that made the bitterness and anger at Peter only grow, fester within the wounds of his betrayal. Twelve years wasting away in prison when he could have been with his godson, spent birthdays with him, Christmases. Summers had ticked by in a windowless cell when he could have been playing Quidditch with the boy, teaching him all the tricks that James had been fond of-

Harry was kind and smart and broken and Peter was the reason for the brokenness, in the end of it all. And he hated that the only way he would ever get to know Harry was as Argos. 

But it was something, and he turned on his hind legs, ready to return to the castle-

Someone stood at the end of the alley, their body acting as a shield to the light of the sun, a long shadow stretching outward towards Sirius. He growled, a small effort of intimidation, but the person only chuckled darkly, moving forward. 

“Frightening- shaking in my boots,” the familiar voice said. It was the boy- the one who had cornered Harry, said such cruel and unkind things about Dumbledore. The growl deepened, hackles raised. He was not above biting at him- he would take full advantage of his sharp and plenty teeth. 

The boy came to a stop, tilting his head to the side, his dark blue eyes narrowed in thought. “You're a curious dog, aren't you? I'd call you a mutt, but that wouldn't be appropriate seeing as how you're pureblood. Black, isn't it?”

Before Sirius could even think to act- run away, attack him, continue to act the part of a stray dog and hope to sway his belief- the boy had raised his wand, a flash of light filling the alley, bright blue. 

It was painful, being pulled from his animagus form without his desire. It was as if hands had wrapped themselves around each of his limbs- fingers around ankles and wrist- and tugged with all their might in opposing directions. His skin stretched and pulled, trying to accommodate for the bones that had shivered and then sprouted in size, clicking into place. His rear legs ached as they were straightened, his spine tingled as his tail shrunk in its base. Fingers burst through skin where there had once been paws, flexing experimentally, and fire seared up the length of his injured arm as the wound was reopened by the shift of his body.

The world continued to hum around him, even when he had changed. His skin buzzed, electric and prickled with goose flesh, a lingering ache settled in his bones and muscles. He groaned, raising a hand to his head before suddenly remembering himself, snapping up to his feet despite the pain and protest, a swell of adrenaline overcoming him as he recalled that he wasn't alone.

“Petrificus Totalus.”

Heavy arms fell to his side, bound by unseen ropes; knees forcibly straightened. He fell to the ground, wincing at the contact, as the boy came to stand over him, a wry smirk twisting his lips. He wasn't very handsome like that, Sirius decided. 

“Now, I wonder what on earth one of Voldemort's servants is doing playing doggy and master with my Harry?”

Sirius struggled to speak against the spell, his lips clamped tightly shut, his tongue like stone in his mouth. He wanted to curse him, ask him who he thought he was that Harry belonged to him. The spell was powerful- surprisingly so, for someone so young- and all attempts to break free were futile. He was too weak, too injured.

“How rude of me, to not make proper introductions, of course. I know your name after all, it's only fair,” he started, his voice light and airy and entirely unsettling. “The name is Tom Riddle. I know, terrible, isn't it? I had crafted a new name for myself- a better one- but someone's gone off and tarnished the reputation of it, forcing me to stick with this pathetic muggle one. For now, at least.” 

If he could move, Sirius might have flinched at the way he said the word muggle- like it was poison and he wished to spit it from his lips. 

Riddle considered him for a moment, dark eyes flicking over his face, before he reached out, cupping his chin loosely with one hand as though he didn't really want to touch him. The once handsome wizard had seen better days- his face was grubby, unwashed for Merlin knew how long, haggard and gaunt with cheekbones that protruded high over hollowed cheeks. His jaw and upper lip were coated in scraggly hair that grew in uneven patches. The hair atop his head was hardly in any better condition, lank and limp and hanging below his shoulder like stringy curtains. 

His gaze was unwavering, and it only emboldened Sirius, making him struggle harder against the petrification charm even as Riddle leveled the tip of a wand against the center of his forehead. 

“Legilimens!” he hissed, and suddenly Sirius was reeling, sinking sinking sinking into the ground below him. Distantly, he was aware of shouting, knew somehow that it was his own and he was crying out in pain at the sensation of his mind being torn into.

Tom Riddle was not gentle in the slightest, tearing through his brain and memories with such reckless abandon that Sirius wondered if it was his intent to kill him through such action alone. His life flashed before him, dizzying scenes slipping by that he could hardly place before they were moving on to the next. Memories of his somber childhood within Number 12 Grimmauld Place, his defiant behavior as he fought against his mother and father. Hogwarts faded in a rush of crimson and gold, of late night explorations beneath a silken cloak. Riddle lingered only for a half a second longer on James Potter, on the boy who looked so similar to Harry yet so unlike him. Large paws thudded on dusty wooden floors, sharp claws carving into them. A howl filled the night.

There were flashes of light, air crackling with energy and magic and battle, reds and blues and golds jettisoning across the battlefield. There was a shrill cackle, a woman who might have been pretty if not for the depraved glint in her eyes, the horrid line of her cruel smile. 

There was a wedding, a woman with crimson hair and green eyes wrapped within a pure white gown. 

There was the same woman, a hand smoothing over a swollen belly, green eyes rimmed in red from tears. 

A goodbye. 

A secret change of plans.

A disappearance.

Poof. 

Like magic they were gone, not to be found.

Until they were, a disappearing act gone sour. There was a collapsing little house- a home- with knitted blankets and crude, childish scribbling hung on walls. The front door had been blasted off its hinges, lay hanging to the side, the frame charred and splintered wood. A body was draped over the stairs, a forgotten and useless wand had slipped from cold fingers and rolled to the foyer. Up the stairs, brushing beside Aurors, was a nursery, the walls the collar of toffee. Another body- face unseen by red curls- was slumped against an empty crib.

There was a third body, and Sirius gave it a good, harsh kick, pausing only to spit disgustingly at it, before racing back down the stairs, trembling with-

Rage.

Hatred.

Grief.

Desire. A deep and penetrating desire to hurt and harm and kill. It was a sensation Riddle knew all too well, and he reveled within it, chasing down the rest of the memory, following after the shadow of Sirius has it apparated away from the little crooked house. He reappeared with a pop, and Riddle could see nothing but a blur of chaos, of action. The room Sirius had appeared in had almost immediately been dismantled, the walls and floor shuddering with the force of his magic as if the room was not enough to contain it, too small a space for the swelling emotions and frazzled energy. 

He almost didn't see the man that Sirius had taken his ire upon- a man who Riddle had seen before in his earlier memories, easy to miss, forgettable. The word mousy came to mind as he looked at the short and stout man, brown hair falling into his plump face as his eyes widened, his lips trembling as he ran out the door, Sirius on his heels. 

He was yelling all the while, a venomous and passionate rage filling him and tainting his words. It was wrath that seemed unfamiliar even to Riddle, who had thought himself so acquainted with such feelings. It was the wrath of betrayal, of loving so deeply and so thoroughly only for it all to be wretched away, leaving nothing but a gaping wound in its absence. 

“You! How could you betray them?! They were your friends! They loved you!”

It was piercing, desperate. A need to know answers yet a desire to know nothing at all, too terrified to learn of what it took for a man to betray his brother. The price that he had sold them at. 

They were on the streets, and a crowd had formed- foolish muggles curious by the scene and unaware of the smell of curses in the air. There was more shouting, more bellows-

“What about Harry? Did you even care about him! You were prepared for him to die for what? So you could know what it was like to matter, you filthy rat!” 

“IT WAS YOU! YOU WERE THE ONE WHO BETRAYED LILY AND JAMES POTTER!

The air erupted, a blinding light filled the street as the night boomed; as if a great storm was on the horizon, preceded by a roll of thunder. Sirius had been tossed by the propulsion, lay dazed and disoriented in a pile of rubble, a trickle of blood trailing down his ears. It was as if his head was swathed in cloth- he could hear nothing except a pitched ringing. He could not hear the screaming of the survivors, the frantic sound of car alarms that had gone off, the heavy streams of water from exposed and ruptured sewage pipes- the sirens that followed only a minute after. His vision swam in and out of focus, bleary and wet and he knew that there were bodies strewn about the street, disembodied limbs mingled with shattered glass. Yet he saw none of that, his vision becoming steady- impossibly so and only fueled by the adrenaline that surged within his veins- and he could see clear and sharp against the blurred background a rat scurrying away from the scene. 

He was being dragged away, trying and failing to dig his hands and heels into the pavement in protest as he was hoisted up by invisible hands. He was fading, his energy gone and his body exhausted from the the abuse he had put it through. His words were barely understood garbles-

“Wormtail! The rat! We trusted- I wouldn't-I wanted to kill him! He deserved to die!”

The misunderstood rantings of lunatic. The crime of a century. 

Perhaps it was the madness in his eyes, the desire to kill that lingered on him for weeks after the incident, or perhaps it was the want to be over with the whole business of You-Know-Who and his followers, but he was foregone a trial. Days bled into weeks into months into years of monotony, of limestone and iron encased rooms and horrific creatures that haunted the corridors. 

And it was all revisited, every decision that had led to this moment playing through Sirius's mind like a muggle film reel. Every mistake, every misstep. 

He wanted to give in- it might have been easier. But he couldn't- not when that rat was still out there, dwelling within sewers or within the plaster walls of homes. It became the diet he sustained himself on, the ember that continued to ignite the fire even as it waned and bowed to the winds. 

A visitor stood opposite his cell, unnerved by the calm. The unbroken man who feasted on the thought of revenge and vengeance. A polite request.

“Can I have that? If you're done. I like to keep in the know how of Quidditch when I can.”

A newspaper was passed through the bars.

He unrolled it, hands shaking at what he saw before him. The headline: In The Wake of Tragedy, Former Hogwarts Professors Offer Aide to Grieving Family. The photo: A candid shot of a family- Weasleys, as noted by the line underneath- sitting in a small and cramped living room. Minerva McGonagall was present, looking just as stern though a bit older than Sirius remembered. But what drew his eye was not the several solemn faced children or former head of Gryffindor but the rat that had sat itself on the youngest Weasley's shoulder. 

How queer that it was missing exactly the same finger that was all that remained of Peter Pettigrew.

Sirius felt the pressure within his head lift as Riddle ceased his perusal of his mind, as if a knife had been pulled from his skull and he might have sighed in relief if he had not still been under the effects of the petrification charm. He opened his eyes, wincing at the light that spurred the dull throb left behind by Riddle's intrusion, and watched as the boy knelt beside him, a shiny shoe placed beside his head. 

“How tragic,” he hummed, his words mocking. “The entire world thinking you a monster when you've only been mourning the loss of your friends.”

He gritted his teeth, grinding the crowns together. He hated him. He did not know who this boy was and he hated him. He needed to get out, he needed to find Dumbledore and use what precious time he had before the Aurors would arrive to tell him of the silver-tongued yet cruel wizard who had taken a shine to his godson. 

“Don't worry. I'll reunite you with them soon enough,” he said, raising his wand once more. 

“Wait!” Sirius yelled, surprised to find that had partially broken through the bind, his teeth clattering as he fought against it. “How will you explain it to Harry? You can't lie to him if you want his trust.”

Riddle was nonplussed, a brow raised. If he had been surprised by Sirius's small- though vital- victory against his petrification, he did not show it. “What will he care if one less servant of Voldemort's exists in the world? As far as he knows, that's all you are.” 

His lips shook with the strain as Sirius said, “He'll find out. He will. Pettigrew can't hide forever. Others will put two and two together. He's a smart boy himself. What will he do when he realizes you killed his godfather? An innocent man? He'll condemn you the way you're trying to make him condemn Dumbledore.”

A falter in his expression; a crack in the armor. 

A flash of red in his eyes before they dimmed back to blue. 

Licking his lips, Sirius added, “Dumbledore lies to him, but not you. You can't lie to him. Not about this. And he will return the favor with loyalty.”

Riddle lowered the wand some, his brow furrowed. Sirius swallowed harshly, wincing in pain as his throat constricted around the action. He could move nothing except his mouth, and he could only pray that it would be enough. That somehow he'd be able to keep the boy from killing him long enough for him to protect Harry. 

He looked up at the sound of a sigh, followed by a chuckle.

“I suppose you're right. That rat will no doubt return to his side when the opportunity presents itself, and there will be no keeping it a secret then,” Riddle said, standing up and brushing off his slacks. “Besides, Harry has grown quite attached to you, hasn't he, Argos?”

He flicked his wand, not waiting for Sirius's retort. “Semper anivinctum.”

The invisible binds dissipated around him, hissing as they did so. But there was no chance to enjoy it as his skin began to itch, crawl uncomfortably over his bones. His entire body was thrumming with the unknown curse, his shoulder blades hitching sharply together, forcing his arms to bend at a painful and grotesque angle. His hips had followed, pinching along his tail bone as they widened in his front, spine extending into the long tail of his animagus form. Skin prickled into goosebumps, long black hairs extending from the raised skin, his face pulled and stretched until there was a long snout where there had once been an angular nose and square jaw. 

The black dog rolled from his back to his legs, running away from the boy despite the searing pain in his front leg, the ache that settled onto him as if he had been thrown against a wall. Wind- cold and sharp as autumn began to wrap her icy fingers around the town- stung at his face, chilled his longs so that they could not expand. But he did not stop, not until he was in the gardens that he often sat with Harry and Luna, letting himself fall into the lavender, his breath ragged. 

Dumbledore would be there tomorrow, Riddle had said. And it had been the truth- or the truth as far as he knew it- because he would not lie to Harry. For whatever reason, the idea of losing Harry's trust was so appalling that he had allowed Sirius to live. A terrible mistake, as he would be certain to warn Dumbledore of him when he came to the castle. 

Or had he allowed him to live? He had cast a spell on him, an unrecognizable one which had forced him to assume his animagus form. Was that all it did, or were there lingering effects? Ones that would not show themselves until hours from now, until the moon was high in the sky and he was writhing in agony? He whined, low and pathetic, surprised by how second nature his instincts had become. 

He didn't need much time however- just enough time for Dumbledore. After that? Surely any fate would be better than returning to Azkaban or the Dementor's Kiss. 

But he did not get sick, much to his relief. Not as he ate the slab of roast that Luna and Harry had delivered for him that evening. Not as the sun fell or rose once more, heralding in a new day.

He even felt better, the Murtlap Essence Harry had give him doing a (begrudgingly admitted) spectacular job on his injured leg, easing the pain and cooling the heat of infection. 

No, he didn't feel ill until he saw the Headmistress of the school (taller than Hagrid himself he swore!) walking towards the entrance to the school, Albus Dumbledore by her side. 

It wasn't so much the sight of the wizard that had made his stomach coil uncomfortably within him, or even the knowledge that he was to expose himself- months of careful hiding and plotting only to toss it all away.

No, it wasn't until he attempted to revert back to his human form that sickness settled into him, made his stomach flip until he was vomiting frothy white liquid beside clipped rose bushes. 

He couldn't change back.

Tom Riddle had trapped him in his animagus form.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Argos: The loyal dog to Odysseus from Homer's Odyssey. 
> 
> (I firmly believe that if Sirius ever had to convince someone he was really a dog, his go to method was to lick his crotch and I will literally fight anyone who says otherwise.)
> 
> I originally planned on killing Sirius and then I...I just couldn't. I didn't have the heart to go through with it. 
> 
> Also I wanted to do something other than Smart, Brave, Sneaky and Misc. for the houses and I thought the four elements would be nifty- plus, it added the interesting dynamic of placing people in houses based on inherent characteristics and magical style as opposed to beliefs or values they held. 
> 
> NEXT UP: Harry and Dumbledore have their visit, a rat makes a daring escape, and Tom makes Harry an incredibly tempting offer.


	4. A Betrayal, a Rat, and an Offer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I return! I apologize for the state of this chapter- a bit more set up and building for future chapters than anything truly meaty. Enjoy!

Chapter Four: A Betrayal, a Rat, and an Offer

“Settling in well, Harry?” Dumbledore asked congenially, entwining his fingers together and laying them flat along his chest, resting them above the satin belt that cinched his robes close. 

Harry nodded, shifting in his chair. It felt odd, having his former Headmaster sit beside him instead of before him, behind the large and intricately carved desk. Instead, Madame Maxime held that position, towering over the two of them in a way that should have made Harry feel small, like a nothing being scrutinized. But he didn't feel small, merely odd, a bit lofty and heady from the shift of power that had occurred with nothing but a small change in seating arrangements.

Dumbledore was beside him. An equal. He held no office here, no authority. Harry didn't even have to be here, as Maxime had made very clear. If he would rather be in class, he just need say so and she would send him back.

“I admit I was worried about the transition. Not only for you, but all my former students. Though I've no doubt that Madame Maxime and her staff have been as welcoming as possible,” Dumbledore began, smiling kindly in the direction of the Headmistress. “Classes have been well?”

“Fine,” Harry snapped, his tone more curt than he had intended. He could hardly help it, Tom's words twisting within him, sinking and rising to the forefront of his mind even as he hastily tried to push them away. Their conversation the day before had tainted this moment now, he knew. Made it seem off, as if Dumbledore was skirting around a topic. That he knew more than he was sharing.

It angered him, that Tom's words had gotten to him so.

“I've met with your teachers, and it seems you aren't performing as well here as you did before. I've spoken with Miss Granger and she also informs me that you've kept your distance from her. She's worried about you, as am I. Friends are one of our most invaluable-”

“I've got friends. I'm not failing,” Harry interrupted, his short nails digging into the soft wood that made up the arm of the chair. A small voice, buried within the back of his skull asked why he had lashed out, why he had met the concern with anger and fire. But the irritation that filled him, spurned by Tom's words which still lingered in his mind, seemed to make his nerve endings vibrant. 

Dumbledore reeled back, his eyes widening in surprise at the sudden outburst. “Harry, my apologies, I did not-”

The words fell on deaf ears, as another voice boomed within his head. The sibilant purr of none other Tom Riddle, the thought so clear and crisp that it seemed as if they were not the memory of his warning but as if they were instead being spoken to him; within him. 'Sirius Black. He'll warn you about him, but he won't tell you who he really is...'

Tom had said that Dumbledore would lie to him, that he had his own plan and his own agenda that did not require Harry to know the truth. 

What was the truth?

“Who's Sirius Black?” 

Dumbledore quieted immediately, whatever he had been in the midst of saying forgotten as he glanced at Harry with a quizzical expression. Blue eyes narrowed behind half moon spectacles, a hand pulling from his waist and entwining thoughtfully in his beard. “Sirius Black? Has that been what's bothering you? I know the other night's attack on the Weasleys has no doubt left you-”

“No,” Harry cut off through gritted teeth, his brow furrowing. “Who is he? And don't tell me that he worked for Lord Voldemort. I know that already.”

For a moment, Harry held his breath, his chest burning with the desire to exhale. He thought, for sure, that Dumbledore would continue to talk around his question, or perhaps not answer it all, instead offering unsatisfying platitudes in its place. To his immense surprise however, the older man sighed, reaching upward and rubbing his temple. All at once, he looked very tired and old.

“Sirius Black was a former student of mine. Came to Hogwarts over twenty years ago. He was an average student, a troublemaker. Popular. But why, Harry, are you so interested in who he was before Voldemort's servant? No good can come from digging into past,” he said, and there was something peculiar about the way he spoke. A harshness to them that Harry had not quite heard from the older man. A harshness that suggested it was best to move on from the discussion.

But again, as if he stood right beside him, lips pressed against his ear, he heard Tom's voice. 'There's more to him than that.'

Before he could stop himself, question whether or not he even cared to know, or if he even trusted Tom enough to try to find out, the words left Harry's lips: “And?”

Blue eyes met stubborn green, unwavering and cold and Harry might've shivered but a resolve was hardening him. 

“Mister Potter, I'm afraid you are being very rude-” Madame Maxime started, only for Harry to interrupt her just as he had Dumbledore, bile rising in his chest.

“And?”

Tom was wrong. Dumbledore wasn't hiding anything from him, he wouldn't. He was the one person he could trust wholly, the one who understood Harry in a way that no other did. There was simply no way that Tom was correct.

“Sirius Black was a Gryffindor,” Dumbledore said suddenly, startling Harry from his thoughts and from the unsettling quake in his stomach that threatened to make him sick. 

The statement struck him as odd. A Gryffindor? He had thought all of Voldemort's followers had been Slytherin. A bias on his part perhaps, but no doubt incorrect. After all, Voldemort himself was the Heir of Slytherin, the prodigal son in his own belief. What use would he have Gryffindors?

Why would a Gryffindor kiss the robes of a Slytherin?

Dumbledore's face softened suddenly, returning to the friendly visage he had become familiar with, the one that filled him with hope and relief. “He was best friends with your father, and mother, close enough that he was named your Godfather, only to betray them. It was his betrayal that led to their death that night.”

A beat of silence passed between them.

“He was...their friend?” he asked, lips pinching. An image appeared before him, pristine and technicolor as if it were happening right then in that second. His father, a mirror image of himself but with hazel eyes instead of green and a blemish free forehead, careless and young, laughing with a boy whose face was obscured in shadows, with tangled black curls and a menacing aura reverberating from him. His father and mother, locked in an embrace with the same boy, unaware of the maliciousness, the awaiting betrayal. His father and mother, dead, the same boy standing above their prone bodies, lips curling into a crooked grin.

“Harry,” Dumbledore implored, a hand reaching out and settling on the young boy's shoulder only for it to be shirked away. 

“You knew. This whole time you and probably everyone else knew and no one told me?” he asked, voice hitching in the tremble of his emotions, clamorous and riotous. A knot lodged in his throat, his eyes burned from the tears that tried to break through. He fought against the desire to cry, steering what tenuous control he still had of his emotions into a different territory: anger.

He rose from his seat, the ball of tightly wound nerves and energy fraying, snapping like twine. “Why didn't you tell me?”

Dumbledore stood as well, towering over him, reaching out in what was meant to be an endearing gesture but Harry stepped away from it, running a hand through his already messy hair. “Harry, sometimes the past is best left in the past. There is good and there are lessons to be learned but there is also pain that needs to be buried. It's tragic what happened-”

“Tragic? Tragic?! My parents are dead. Because of him. And now he's gone and escaped and attacked my best friend and no one thinks to tell me why? No one thinks I deserve to know that he's the reason they're dead. That they trusted him and now they're dead?” He was vibrating with the rage, the air crackled and fizzed around him as his magic sparked, static making his hair stand on end. 

“Mister Potter, why don't you see Healer Prowse, get a calming draught from him? I'll speak to your teachers for the remainder of the day and tell them to expect your absence while you rest-” Madame Maxime said, her voice soothing, tilted in a French accent. She had risen from her high-backed leather chair, stepped around her desk and rested a large hand on Harry's shoulder. Turning her attention from the student, she said to Dumbledore, “Albus, I think you've worn you're welcome for this visit. We'll have tea another time.” 

It was protective, a mother bear coming to the defense of her cubs. The shift of power was once more evident, Dumbledore the unwelcome outsider. There was a part of Harry that laughed at it, high-pitched and cruel and Harry shoved it away for later examination, grabbing his rucksack from where it sat on the floor and pulling it onto his shoulder.

He left the office without so much as a wave, the dam cracking and breaking until his cheek was wet and sticky with the tears he fought against. Anger turned to bitter tears, the salt coating his lips so that it was all he could taste. 

He was always the last to know, no matter how much or how little it affected him. Perhaps he thought Harry too young to know the truth, a misguided desire to protect him from the cruelties of the world. But the defense did little to make Harry feel better; there was no more innocence to be preserved, after all. He had already survived eminent death, had killed with his own hands. It was clear that Voldemort- as either Tom or the older shadow of the man- wanted Harry desperately, wanted to finish the work he had set out to do twelve years ago.

What sense did it make to keep anything from him? Surely, it was only a hindrance.

But that was the running theme, wasn't it? He was a wizard, capable of things both wonderful and terrible, and he did not learn of it until Hagrid broke through the door on his eleventh birthday. His parents were murdered, not killed in the car crash he wrongfully believed he had survived all those years. He was famous, a household name, for something he had no memory of- strangers around the world knew of his legacy before he even knew he mattered. That anyone might miss him besides the spiders he shared the cupboard with. 

Everything was kept from him, why should he have been surprised by this?

His parents were dead because their best friend, someone they trusted enough to make the godfather of their child, betrayed them.

More startling than that revelation was that Tom had been right. That there was so much more to Sirius Black than anyone was letting on, that Harry had to twist Dumbledore's arm to even learn of it. 

It stung, knowing that the boy he so vehemently despised had been the only one telling him the truth. The only one who seemed to care. Cared that he did have a remaining sliver of family in the magical world, and that that family wanted him dead. 

Not as if this one instance of truth made up for the multitude of lies- Riddle was deceit, just as everyone else.

His head ached and his stomach flipped tumultuously as he made his way to the infirmary, Healer Prowse waiting for him with a calming draught ready. He accepted it gratefully before returning to his dormitories, where he took a fitful rest.

He dreamt of his mother and father, eternally young and bathed in light, singing soft lullabies to a small baby. But the dreams soured when Sirius Black appeared, his darkness less shadows and more of a black hole, consuming all the light and joy away from the scene until it was saturated and heavy grays and inky blacks. 

And Lily and James withered, skin sinking inward, turning to ash that fluttered away to reveal white bones, leaving only their baby boy behind him, who fell into the waiting and clawed hands of Sirius Black.

-xXx-

The Weasley domicile was what one might call quaint. Cute. Homey and charming. These were not the words that came to Tom Riddle's minds as he sat upon the one sturdy fence post, a cloak wrapped tightly around him. 

Sad.

Pathetic.

Decrepit. 

That was what Tom thought of when he looked upon the crooked cottage, piled too high and kept standing through nothing but magic and sheer force of will alone. The final light within the home, visible through one of the windows of the carefully perched upper level, was shut off. 

Tom turned his eyes upward to the dark knight sky, the dotted stars creating a mural above the earth. It did not take long for him to seek them out, all the visible constellations. 

Leo, the lion, was positioned just above him, and it made him think of his own little lion. Harry's mind was an absolute mess, reaching across the distance and through the unknown bound between him and Tom. He was in distress, filled with a terrible anger that he did not know how to diffuse and which turned into a piercing migraine. 

There was, no doubt, only one explanation of course. Dumbledore had indeed made his visit, and Harry, twisted in too many ways to know what was up and what was down, had inquired about Sirius Black. Only to learn the heartbreaking truth.

Or at least, half of it. 

It was a victory, and something warm bloomed within Tom's chest, the sensation even stronger given the chill and cold that bit through his warming charms. It was pride, delight at having won a small portion of the battle. Chipped away, if even a little, at Harry's unquestioned trust and hope in the former headmaster. 

Though it was still a distraction, the torrent of emotions that were not his own that washed over him in quick succession. He had thought himself an accomplished occlumens, but clearly he had not been prepared for such an...intimate connection.

He would have to work on that, limiting the influence Harry had over him.

Tom pulled his pocket watch out from the inner pocket of his cloak, the gold glinting in what small fragment of light was offered by the moon and stars. Thirty minutes had passed since the last light had been turned off. 

It was time.

In all the research he had done of his future self (and there wasn't much, the wizarding world seeming to take the approach of not looking a gift horse in the mouth with his death) the most useful had been that the Dark Lord had created a way to communicate with his followers. A dark mark that linked to his mind and powers and allowed him to summon them at will, to seek them out no matter where they hid.

Lord Voldemort might be barely recognizable from the man he once was, but there were some things one couldn't abolish; and Tom Riddle had the same mind and magical signature that was connected to those hundreds of dark marks. And while the newly enacted wards around the burrow in the wake of Black's attempt might have prevented Riddle from entering, they did not prevent a certain rat from leaving.

He watched as tall grass shifted, a zigzag line running through closer and closer to Riddle until-

“My lord!” a squeaking voice said as the air crackled with the force of his transfiguration. Where was a rat now stood a man, short and squat, appearing even smaller as he remained on his hands and knees, bending low to kiss at the hem of Tom's cloaks.

In any situation, it might have delighted Tom to see someone worship him so, groveling at his feet in a way that he had only dreamed of. But the man- Pettigrew- was filthy and grubby, like he hadn't bathed since he had assumed the role of pet rat.

He took a step back, causing Pettigrew to look upward, his face twisting.

“You're not-”

Tom reached out, too fast for the slow and unsuspecting Pettigrew- and his hand clasp around the thick neck, shoving him with such force he fell to the ground. He writhed and squirmed, tried to wriggle out of the strong grasp, only to have a breath knocked out of him as Tom leaned forward, his knee pressed below the rat's ribs.

“I assure you, I am. How else would I have been able to call to you? Tell you to meet me here?” he reasoned.

Pettigrew seemed to consider this, blue eyes flicking to the side in thought before asking, “But you look...different?” He added an inflection at the end, as if he wasn't certain of whether or not it was an appropriate thing to say. When Tom failed to respond in time, he sputtered, “But no less powerful and intimidating, m-my Lord!”

It was disgusting, how desperate he was to please, so absent of any power of his own that he was forced to grovel for what he could, meager scraps tossed his way. Nevertheless, it still stoked something within Tom, the fire that sat where his heart would sit if he were a more poetic man. The weakness of another only amplified his own strength and power.

“Yes, my most recent attempt to return has found me in the image of my teenage self,” Tom said, frowning as Pettigrew's eyes widened into discs. No doubt the man was surprised by just how human- dare he say, handsome?- his lord looked in his youth.

Yet, he was wise enough to not say anything, and Tom added, “I've been keeping my return a secret for the time being. Getting some things in order before the grand reveal. I must say I'm impressed with how well you managed to twist everything onto Black. Even I thought you were dead until paying a visit to Black himself.”

Pettigrew blinked, his lower lip trembled several times before steadying- a spark of regret? Twisting his lips into a cruel smile, he said, “Don't worry. He won't be a problem for you anymore. I've taken care of him-” he paused for a moment before adding, “Wormtail.”

The man shuddered again, and Tom fought against the desire to chuckle at his discomfort. Such a weak fool to have betrayed his friends and then shudder at mention of his betrayal. He imagined the man would never be able to hear the name Wormtail again without conjuring up images of the fallen friends who trusted him with their lives. 

It only made the name more appealing.

“Of course, my exit was a bit hasty that night, and there are a few things I still need, perhaps you have the answers I'm looking for?” Before he could respond, Tom rose the tip of his wand and pressed it between the two beady eyes. 

“Legilimens!”

There was no resistance, nothing to even hinder him as he thrust himself into Pettigrew's mind and memories. While Black's own memories had told the story of a rebellious youth, of the black sheep of a family defying their ideals and wishes to forge his own path; a story of forsaking his blood family for a family he created of his own, ties of loyalty that would never waver- Pettigrew's were more humble. Modest.

Quiet and reserved, Peter trailed on the coattails of other more successful, more powerful or more popular witches and wizards. It was by sheer luck that he managed to get into the good graces of James Potter and Sirius Black, the pride of Gryffindor House. Even in his mind, he was a mere observer, a casual background character among a sea of protagonists and antagonists. 

There was a spark of pride when he was chosen to be the Secret Keeper for the Potter's. An honor. 

The image shifted, turned gray and pallid and dreary. It was as if it was a recollection of a nightmare as opposed to a true to life memory. Peter stood in the center of a room- his flat, Tom assumed, bare with some sparse, worn furnishings- a towering figure standing before him.

The man was only a bit taller than Tom himself, twirling a long wand the color of bone between tapered fingers. He was bald, and the slope of his face was too smooth to be natural, his nose blunt and only half an inch shy of being flat. His lips were thin and colorless, but his eyes...his eyes were narrowed, tilting in an odd manner that was reminiscent of a creature, not man. 

They were red. Blood red. Where there should have been white was instead red, the iris a deeper maroon. 

This was Lord Voldemort, the first real look he had gotten of his future self, more than the quick, spare glimpse offered to him in Black's mind. Tom's lips curled in disgust, for a moment repulsed by the hideousness but shirking the notion away. What did he need of good looks when he had all the power he could dream of? What role did vanity play once he had already won a following? He did not need to be loved and adored when he was feared.

“Now, don't play coy with me. I know the Potter's made you their keeper,” a high-pitched voice hissed, startling Tom and causing a shiver to run down his spine, his lips pinching in irritation that he had been so affected. 

Pettigrew swallowed, lips trembling, but his eyes gleamed defiantly. “I-I'll never b-betray them to you!” His words hitched, stammering over each other in his nerves. 

Voldemort's head fell back as he let out a high, icy cackle, the noise pulsating throughout the room, breathing into it. He exhaled sharply before fixing his crimson eyes once more on Peter. “You Gryffindors and your illusions of loyalty. Courage. You're so jaded and naive that you don't even know when you've been had. I had hoped that they had merely underestimated you and that you would prove yourself more worthy but alas, you seem to be everything they thought.”

Something dissolved within Pettigrew and he frowned, furrowing his brow as he said, “I haven't been had.”

Voldemort sighed, looking almost sympathetic. Tugging at his robes, he bent forward so that he was eye level with Pettigrew, the latter cowering away from him. “Peter, they don't care for you or trust you. They've only chosen you to protect them because it was the less obvious choice. They thought that they were being clever, that by making Black a red herring I would never get to you. But they underestimated me, and I suppose you were just a sacrifice they were willing to make?”

Pettigrew whimpered, struggling against the invisible binds that held him place. “No, they wouldn't...they're my friends.”

“Friends! I know all about them, Peter, and they hardly even tolerated you. They felt sorry for you, pitied you. That and that alone is the only reason they allowed you to trail behind them,” Voldemort implored, his tone surprisingly soft, as if he truly believed he were doing Pettigrew a favor. 

The rat faltered, but shook his head, the side to side motion slowed. “You're lying-”

Voldemort swooped forward, his robes billowing dramatically as he was suddenly mere inches from the younger wizard, white fingers curling over shaking shoulders. “Do not claim my truth to be lies simply because you do not favor them! I'm offering you an opportunity that better witches and wizards would- have- killed for! An opportunity to shirk away the chains of those who see you as a mere prop in their war and become something more.”

Pettigrew licked his lips. “A-and if I d-don't want it?”

Impossibly thin lips twisted, pulled into a wry, crooked grin. “I don't think we have to worry about that, do we Peter?”

The image shifted, colors blending and fading, creating entirely new colors. Peter cried out as the dark mark appeared on his skin, ink bleeding up as if the tattoo had been cut into his skin and was made of blood and blood alone. Peter offering the Potters as leverage, small eyes gleaming at the prospect of power, authority. No longer would he follow, forgotten, several paces behind the others...

He would lead.

He would not beg for kindness, for he would be the one that others would fall on knee and plead to.

Memories came, went, nebulous and flimsy. Finally the one that Tom had been searching- hoping for- came, and he slowed his perusal. It was the nursery where Lily Potter lay, dead, sprawled on the floor, Voldemort beside her. But unlike Black's memory, this was from a moment earlier in the evening, when the deaths were fresh, Lily's cheeks still pink, her eyes not quite devoid of light. A baby wailed, tirelessly and strained from a crib, chubby cheeks ruddy with tears and green eyes pinched. There was blood, shiny and brilliant, staining his brow, smeared over thick fingers that had unknowingly touched the wound that would one day become his most striking feature. His scar.

Pettigrew was knelt by Voldemort's body, hastily searching through the mess that had become of the room. With a muttered exclamation, he pulled his hand out from underneath a pile of splintered wood. Clasped within his hand was his wand. Voldemort's wand.

Tom's wand. 

Shoving the wand into his pocket in a manner that made Tom wince, he stood, brushing dirt and plaster from his pants. He made to step out of the room before pausing, turning his attention to the crying toddler who had now pressed his face against the bars of his crib, red staining white, and reached a hand out, fingers clutching at air. Desperate for someone, anyone. Comfort. 

Pettigrew swallowed thickly, glancing from Harry to Lily's prone and lifeless body to Harry again. But his resolve steadied, and with a sigh, a sad glance offered to his once friend and her child, he vanished, taking Tom along with him.

Several memories passed before Tom retreated from his mind, one side of his lips tipping upward in a lopsided grin. His hand was still wrapped around the thick throat, and Tom traced his fingertips lightly over the skin, a perversion of a loving touch. “You are useful, Wormtail. In more ways than you know.” 

With a shove, Tom stood up, leveling his wand at the wizard once more-

'Obliviate!'

Green light flashed, momentarily blinding him. Pettigrew blinked, blearily, confusedly, before his gaze sharpened on Tom. “W-who-” he stuttered before gasping, looking to his hands- human, one missing a finger. He gasped, the air crackling as he shrunk right at Tom's feet, his nose extending, ears lifting and rounding upward until he was just a plump rat.

And then he was gone, skittering away and back up to the crooked little house on the hill.

Tom did not follow.

After all, the wand he had borrowed from some poor, unfortunate wizard simply wasn't cutting it anymore. Not when he would be reunited with his own wand, separated for decades. He apparated, offering Wormtail a silent thanks as he did so, for hiding his wand so well for his return. It almost made him pity the creature. 

Voldemort was not going to be pleased when he learned the rat had lost his most precious belonging.

-xXx-

Peter ran to the house, scuttling along the perimeter of the little cottage until he was in the gardens, cutting through and beyond until he was off the property line, his breaths frantic and cloying and ragged. His lungs felt too big for his chest cavity, perhaps the result of returning to his human form after so long, only to once again compress and morph. 

Why had he been in his human form? 

And in front of a strange man no less.

There was a pressing sensation beneath his skull, a tingle as if something alive was crawling along his brain, antennae brushing against him. He might have thought it was merely a headache, the lingering throb from a particularly painful head injury. But the blank space in his memory, the gap where things ought to have been but weren't, told him that it was the result of a charm. That the man had searched his mind, only to toss him aside when done.

What had he been searching for?

What had he found?

The thought alone was enough for him to panic, his bones to shiver beneath his skin. Peter Pettigrew had many secrets.

It had been a fear of his since the very beginning. He was never good with secrets, or much at all really. He was hardly a prize and he often wondered what the Dark Lord had seen in him. But he had seen something when others hadn't and now Peter might have gone and ruined it all. 

The man had seen him outside of his animagus form, knew full and well that Peter was alive and living with the Weasleys and that must mean that Sirius Black was innocent. And they would search for him. And they would find him. And when they did what other secrets would they find?

He cursed himself. He should have known better than to let the Dark Lord entrust him with his secrets. He should have known he wouldn't get away with it.

He considered running away, away from it all. Abandoning what few tenuous connections to his old life remained. But the thought was quickly dismissed. Even he knew not to try to evade him. His forearm, miniature and bestial as it was, burned as if in warning. You can not run from me. You can not forsake me.

He couldn't run, but he couldn't return to the Weasleys either. It was too risky. Sirius Black knew he was there, had already attempted to right what was wrong. And now that other strange man-

No. He couldn't risk it.

With nowhere else to go, he headed off to the one place that came to mind, hoping that once the Dark Lord returned he would overlook this little indiscretion.

Peter wasn't very good with secrets, but he was certainly adept at hiding and going unnoticed.

-xXx-

Weeks went by, turning into months which came in a flurry of autumnal leaves and crisp air, giving way to naked and dead looking trees, air that chilled and nipped at your skin. The gardens however were impervious to the dying touch of winter, just as green and colorful and brilliant as ever. The ground was soft below it, kept alive by magic.

So it was that Harry and Luna continued to meet each out around noon in the garden, an oasis of spring in the dead of winter. A palette of colors on the gray and drab canvas. Argos would be waiting, curled underneath the brush of some flowering plant that Luna had told Harry the name of several times but he could never commit to memory for some reason.

“They do that,” Luna had said, unconcerned with his ignorance even after she informed him of its name for the seventh time. “They don't like to be memorized.”

He had not heard back from Tom, which had surprised him. He had thought for certain that the older boy would delight in his victory, would take no time in finding Harry and goading him. He could hardly imagine Tom saying something as petulant as 'I told you so' but no doubt would there be something to the same effect. A bit more eloquent, yet just as biting. 

And yet, even the letters ceased, and for a moment he had believed that he was free of the wizard, a curious feeling unfurling in his chest. He certainly wouldn't miss him, not in the way that a person typically misses another at least, not in a longing, adoring way. But he did miss him, in the way that someone might miss a constant in their life, one which was not pleasant but always reliable. 

It had taken two weeks before it dawned on him, that he was now fully alone. He had Luna and Argos, companions turning to wonderful friends. But Tom had been the only one who had known him, knew his darkest secrets no matter how hackneyed the idea seemed. Whether Harry wanted to confess it or not, a bond had been forged, the sort of bond that can only come about when two share a hideous crime between them. 

And now Tom had gone, leaving him to dwell on the truths he could not share, with the knowledge and hurt of betrayal of all the truths that no one had bothered to share with him. He felt terribly and utterly alone, isolated. 

He hated Tom for it, making him miss the cancer of his existence. The parasitic nature of their relationship, Tom feeding off of Harry's discomfort, and Harry finding solace in it.

Still, time moved onward, even if it remained in a stasis in the garden, a bubble where time could not touch. Classes had ended for the winter holidays, and his days had grown calmer, as if even his worries had taken a break in observance.

“Merry Christmas, Harry,” a cheerful voice said, and he turned to see Luna approaching him, arms wrapped around a bundle hidden by her cloak. 

He grinned at the sight of her, in a green and red stripped cloak, with matching stockings. Her long blonde hair had been braided at the nape of her neck and tossed over her shoulder, mistletoe and holly berries intricately woven in. She chimed as she walked, the gentle ringing coming from too good-sized bells that hung from her ears. 

“How festive,” he said, adding that he liked it when she blushed, perhaps embarrassed.

“Yes, well, I love Christmas. Everyone always seems so much happier,” she said, sitting beside Harry and petting Argos in greeting. “And I've brought presents.”

They exchanged presents. She was grateful for her gift, a lovely leather bound sketchbook, an amethyst stone nestled in the center of the cover. The pages were thick and blank, a waiting canvas for artwork. He had also gotten her a set of colored pencils, magical ones which could charm the drawing to come to life, animate upon the page. 

Harry opened his gift, saving the wrapping paper as it had been hand painted, sweet and colorful doodles that he wanted to keep. He folded the paper, keeping it neat, before turning to his present. It was a sweater, hand knitted in red and gold yarn. If there was a pattern, he could not discern it, and it was not the most well made, though it was certainly lovingly made.

“I know you were sad when you grew out of the sweater Mrs. Weasley made for you, and I know you don't always hear from Ron, so I just wanted to make sure you got a Christmas sweater this year,” she said.

He pulled her into a tight hug, unable to express his gratitude. There simply weren't enough words in the English language, no finite way to tell her just how much he loved the sweater. A bit ugly. A bit imperfect. And he loved it. 

So he held her instead, inhaling the scent of balsam and cranberries and pine needles. She smelt like Christmas, all balled into one. Gift wrapped in bells and striped wrapping. When he finally pulled away, it was with a large smile in place. “Thank you, Luna. It's perfect.”

He put it on, over the jumper he was already wearing. The neck hole was a bit too large and hung in a limp circle around his neck, the sleeves a tad uneven. She seemed pleased with herself, exhaling a breath of air.

“It was my first time making a jumper. I've done scarves and blankets before, but never a jumper.”

Luna had also made a sweater for Argos, for practice, and he seemed grateful for the extra warmth. It was cold the last few weeks, growing colder still. When the rain fell- and it was often- it was wet and sloppy and made slush out of whatever snow remained from the various storms. 

“I wish we could have pet dogs in school. It isn't fair that he should be so cold. No one should be alone for Christmas,” Luna said, running her hands through the black fur. His coat had grown in thicker in preparation for the holidays, but it hardly seemed enough. 

For a moment, Harry's thoughts flashed to Tom, a child in an orphanage with no family or friends. He certainly wouldn't have any family remaining now. How was he spending the holidays? Was he alone? Or had he surrounded himself with more of his precious followers?

It unsettled him, thinking of the wizard in such a context. Or that he thought of him at all. He pushed the thought from his mind, turning to Luna with a curious look in his green eyes. “What if we bring him in anyway?” he asked.

“We might get caught.”

“Not if they don't see him.”

-xXx-

Harry had known that Argos was certainly a well behaved dog, but he wasn't quite prepared for just how well behaved he was. 

Luna and Harry entered the Grand Entrance of the castle, a small space between them. The invisibility cloak had been too big, the hem trailing on the ground around the large dog. He had been worried that Argos- curious by the school and what few students or teachers wandered throughout- would run off from them, taking the cloak with him or losing it in his trot. 

But he remained at their sides, steady and quiet, as if he knew the importance of not being discovered. Even when they departed, Harry taking him to his dormitories in the south wing, Argos never made a sound, never ran from his side.

“You've been very good, Argos,” Harry praised, scratching underneath the dog's chin. His fellow third year roommates were all, thankfully, visiting family for the holidays and would not be back until the start of term. A week and a half from then. 

A week and a half to figure out how to keep the dog hidden.

Argos whined, rubbing his head against Harry's hand, the only part of him visible from the cloak which had been tossed aside. He wondered if perhaps he had picked up a sickness living as a stray- he would at periods get listless and fatigued, sighing heavily and whining in a pained, sorrowful way.

'Could dogs get colds?' Harry wondered. He wasn't certain- he had never done much research on it, after all. Perhaps a trip to the library was in order. 

“Stay here, boy. I'll be back soon, with some food,” he said, feeling all at once silly for speaking to an animal as if might understand him yet also assured. It was nice to speak to someone who wouldn't judge or criticize you, even if you were only met back with large brown eyes.

With a pat on the head, he left the dog behind, taking the steps down from his dormitory to the common area. 

The south wing was decorated in warm colors, dark hues of red and orange, golds and bronzes. The walls were brick, every shade of red possible inlaid in the walls. A massive fireplace stood in the very center of the common area, double sided so that it could be viewed from either side. On one side was a large sectional couch, copper colored and overstuffed with knitted blankets tossed about. A square mahogany coffee table sat between it and the fireplace, stained with rings from where drinks had been sat and forgotten about. Several armchairs and smaller sofa's littered the space, plaid and patterned and mismatching.

One the opposite side of the fireplace was the study area, tables with chairs pushed underneath. The wall was lined with bookshelves, torches in between them. Flames flicked in them, mirroring the fire that constantly roared and crackled in the center, a beacon of the room. 

Christmas trees- some small, some large- were sporadically placed throughout, decorated by the students earlier in the month. Garland hung from every available spot, over sized scarlet ribbons decorating them. 

It wasn't Gryffindor, but it was still homey.

Harry had grown used to the quiet of the past several days, being one of only a handful of students who remained. So it was with much surprise that he came to a halt, blinking at the sight of Tom sprawled out in the corner of the sectional, a book raised.

He looked up as Harry entered, closing the book and setting it aside. “Hello, Harry. Having a merry Christmas?” he asked before squinting his eyes, frowning. “Nice....sweater.”

Harry blinked, suddenly aware he was staring. “What are you doing here? I thought you had decided to leave me alone,” he said, though he walked forward until he was standing behind the sofa, hands gripping onto it. 

“Why would you think that?”

He shrugged. “Haven't heard from you. No more letters.”

Tom rose a brow. “You weren't even reading them. Why should I waste my energy for it to be tossed in a rubbish bin?”

“Why now, then? Why have you chosen to come now after all this time?” Harry asked, once again feeling the familiar sting of anger as it burned within him, any part of him that might have mistakenly missed Tom forgotten. 

If Tom did notice the quell of rage within Harry, he did not show it, pulling from the inside of his cloak a wrapped parcel. “It's Christmas,” was all he offered in defense. 

Harry blanched.

“I don't want a present from you. You can keep it,” he spat.

“You haven't even opened it.”

“I don't trust it,” he said simply. Then, “You open it.”

Tom looked affronted, settling the gift in his lap. He waved a hand, flourishing it above the satin ribbon atop it. Each end of the bow pulled outward by unseen hands, undoing the ribbon as the paper wrapping unfurled, revealing a box of gourmet chocolates. With another wave, the box flipped open, and Tom considered them for a moment before selecting a dark chocolate nugget and popping it in his mouth. “See? Fine,” he said, chewing slowly, thoughtfully.

Harry sighed, running a hand through his untidy hair. “You've already got what you wanted. Dumbledore told me the truth about Sirius Black weeks ago. You're right, he lied to me. Now if you don't mind, I've got to be somewhere,” Harry spat, snarling as he made his way around the sofa and towards the door. He wanted him gone. The isolation was better than this, the torment of having a young Dark Lord lounging before him. 

“But I haven't even given you your other gift,” Tom said, rising from the sofa to trail behind Harry. “Better than a box of chocolates.”

“I already told you I don't want-”

“Spend the summer with me,” Tom interrupted, lips twitching into a small smile. 

Harry froze, his mouth slung open. “What?”

Whatever he had been expecting, it was not that. He furrowed his brow, examining Tom's face for anything that might betray the cleverly crafted illusion. A harshness to his gaze. A stern line to his lips. Anything that might look unnatural. Anything that might reveal the monster hidden beneath, playing a cruel joke on him.

But there was nothing. His eyes were soft, wide, the yellow flicker of flames reflected in them. 

“I'm offering my home to you. I've a spare bedroom, a large yard-”

“What would ever make you think I'd want to live with you?”

Tom frowned, look down at his robes as he picked at something on his lapel. “I've got a bedroom, much roomier than a cupboard. A yard that's private so you can fly your broom and that owl of yours can finally stretch her wings. I don't require you to clean or cook for me, and even if I did I wouldn't employ corporal punishment.”

Harry flushed, cheeks flaming as they reddened. He knew his situation with the Dursleys wasn't normal. He certainly hated it, had always dreamed of finding his family- maybe his mother and father hadn't died at all and came back for him- or maybe he had a secret aunt or uncle who didn't know of him until recently but desperately wanted to adopt him. He dreamt of a full yard that he didn't have to tend to, eating with a family for dinner instead of in the kitchen, eating whatever was left behind. Birthdays with a proper cake and candles and celebration. 

Kisses instead of kicks, hugs instead of shouting. 

He had dreamed of being offered a home, but not once did those dreams ever involve a certain dark wizard.

Surely even the Dursleys, through all their cruelty and faults, were better than him?

“No,” Harry said, wanting to sound hard and certain but his voice wavered, softened. 

“It's not much,” Tom talked over him. “But it's quaint. Cozy.”

“Why? Why do you even want me to?” Harry asked, his disbelief lacing the words and making them lofty. This had to have been a dream. A perversion of the one he often had, a taunting one. 

Tom sighed, eyes flicking upward as he said in a voice too soft for such a cruel boy, “I know you have difficulty seeing me as anyone other than him. But I'm not. I'm an orphan. I know what it's like to want a home, a real one. I know how much it hurts to feel like you don't have a home, like Hogwarts was the closest you have ever come to having one. And now Hogwarts is gone, and you're here, only to know that in a few short months you'll have to leave here too. You'll have to go back.”

Harry blushed once more, averting his gaze. He reminded himself that Tom Riddle could not empathize with anyone. It was a mantra, twirling and twisting within his mind as he closed his eyes, inhaling deeply. Tom did not understand or empathize with him. Tom only knew that because of what Harry had told him when he was still imprisoned in the diary. Harry had entrusted him with such secrets, and Tom was simply using them against him.

He tried to push away the thought, the promise of a home with a bed all for him. A yard for him to lay in and watch as Hedwig soared above him. 

But a home was not a home if he was on alert, if he felt hunted and preyed upon at all times. His cupboard wasn't much, but it was his own. There were no Dark Lords that lurked within it. No Dark Lords sleeping just beyond it. 

“No,” Harry said again. “I can survive a few months with the Dursleys.”

“Are you certain? The Ministry only charmed your Aunt's memories, not the others. They still remember that night,” he countered, concern warming his voice-

'No,' Harry harshly corrected. He was not concerned, not really. Because Tom Riddle didn't care about him. It was simply an act. Compelling as it was, it was all an act. 

He cleared his throat. “I've got to go somewhere, so if you're done,” he said, meeting Tom's gaze. 

Tom sighed, pinching his lips together. “Very well. Enjoy the rest of your holiday,” he said, a quick smile flitting across his face as he brushed passed. He paused at the door, turning back to Harry with a kind face. “Just because you are denying it now doesn't mean I'm rescinding the offer. The invitation will always be open for you, all you need do is ask.”

Before Harry could say another word, he left, the door clicking close behind him.

Harry let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding, pressing the heel of his palm against his forehead. It suddenly ached, his eyes wincing in pain. He felt torn, as if the two separate sides of himself were pulling, tearing away at him. He knew it was the right choice. It would be dangerous to place himself in such a vulnerable position. Figuratively falling right into Tom's lap. 

Dangerous, and an insult. Ginny Weasley was dead. Cold in the frozen ground. The Weasleys would never be whole again, huddling together as if by remaining in close quarters no one would ever harm them again. The foundation of their family was in ruins because of Tom and he expected Harry to just set it aside? Place his own desires for a home above his respect for the Weasleys?

He might have kept his distance from them, but he never stopped loving them. It was because he loved them and Hermione that he kept them at arms length. 

No, he would not spit upon Ginny's grave, even if it meant bruises littering his torso, nights where his stomach growled and went unsatisfied. He could survive a few months.

-xXx-

A wind whistled through the trees, snow crunched as creatures ran about scurrying away from the man and his unusual bundle, the warm glow of the lantern he held before him. Peter Pettigrew looked thoughtful, his gaze flicking from the various trees, searching for something that only he could see. Finding it, he smiled, settling the bundle and lantern down before moving towards a towering pine tree.

He fell to his knees, digging through the snow at the base of tree, uncovering the frost covered roots. The bark was silver, smooth in the winter chill. Producing a wand from his sleeve, he gripped his fingers around it, muttering something in Latin.

He had wandered for months, truly living as a rat, unsure of where to go after being discovered by the strange man. He had just about given up hope, been ready to accept such a meager and pathetic life, when it came to him. The whispering in his skull. The words that were not his own.

'Wormtail,' they would soothe, 'Come to me. Find me.'

And he had. Dutiful as always, ready to serve and please knowing that one day he would be the one served. That he would be honored as one of his most faithful, one of his most prized servants and rewarded handsomely as such.

And even when Wormtail came to him, pleading for forgiveness about having been discovered by Black and the strange man, he had not cared. He had forgiven him, had ensured that no one would be a problem for him again. 

He had been welcomed with open arms, and once again, he had somewhere to go. Someone to fall to.

The ground gurgled, rumbling as Wormtail finished his incantation, pulling his hand back as a seam ripped up through the base of the tree. It split, the bark cracking and making splintering sounds as a hole formed within the trunk. He reached in, clumsily pawing around, unused to his human form. Limbs too long, his middle too round and everything about him just too big to properly maneuver. 

His fingertips brushed over the curved opening, finding nothing within. 

He froze.

He swallowed thickly.

Beady eyes bulged as he searched once more.

Nothing.

He pulled his hand back, held his wand up and muttered 'Lumos.' The hole was bathed in light, and it was empty empty empty-

“Wormtail,” a cold, high-pitched voice called from behind him, from the bundle of a tightly wound blanket. It made his skin prickle in gooseflesh, his hair raise on end. “Have you found my wand?”

He said nothing, a second passed in perfect silence. The wand was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: Happy Holidays! A sort of Christmas themed chapter for this holiday season? 
> 
> I love Dumbledore (I love all HP characters, really) but I just imagine this man is up in Heaven wiping sweat from his brow and muttering “I cannot believe that worked.” Like really, two out of the three boys he dealt with with troubling home lives turned to the Dark Arts and he just got real lucky with Harry. That is not a good statistic to base the entire wizarding war on. If the horcrux had just been a tad more active things could have gone very differently. 
> 
> Thank you all so much for you support! Follow me on Tumblr (reneehartblog) for sneak peeks and for any questions you may have (I'm just far more consistent with that I'm afraid). I hope you enjoyed!
> 
> NEXT UP: Harry returns home for the summer, Dumbledore enlists the help of the Order to reach Harry before it's too late, and Voldemort plots his return...


	5. The Dream, the Chat, and the Empty House

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentine's Day! 
> 
> So I have skewed with the timeline of canonical events and regret nothing. Bertha Jorkins took a much earlier holiday. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has supported this story by commenting and leaving kudos! You are my muses!   
> Enjoy!

Chapter Five: The Dream, The Chat, and the Empty House

“You haven't been yourself, Harry. Are you feeling well?” Luna asked, startling Harry from his thoughts. Her eyes widened suddenly, and she leaned forward, lowering her voice to a whisper as she asked, “Have the wizzsnorps gotten to you? Father says that vanilla beans are the most effective way to keep them from sneaking into your head. I can make some earrings for you, if you'd like. Or perhaps wrap them around your classes if you'd prefer.”

His lips twitched. “No, Luna, it's nothing like that.”

They sat together on the floor of the kitchens, legs cross as Argos sat between them, tearing into a slab of roast beef between his massive paws. He growled as he tore into the meat, an insatiable sort of hunger that made Harry suspect the dog was not used to eating regularly still.

Luna frowned, sighing. “Oh. Wizzsnorps would be easier to deal with than if you were just sad,” she said, a wistful look about her as if she preferred the imaginary ailments. A game of play pretend. “Why are you sad then?”

He shrugged, feeling all at once uncomfortable. He knew Luna cared about him, and that she was only worried about him. But the question placed him in an odd position. The same position he had been in when Dumbledore sat before him and he couldn't tell him the truth and confess to his sins. What was he to say? He couldn't very well tell her that a young Lord Voldemort has been harassing him and just recently extended an invitation for Harry to live with him?

It was bizarre from all facets, and even Luna might consider it as such.

“Just...miss Hogwarts and Ron is all,” he lied, averting his gaze and settling it on Argos, the creature looking at him with such scrutiny that he felt as if he too knew he was lying. He reached out, running a hand over the soft head. 

“You're always so sad though. I never say anything because I thought you might like your privacy, but well, I like to consider you a friend after all this time. I may not have much experience with it, but it's my understanding that friends share what they're going through with each other.”

He looked up at her, opening and closing his mouth as if unsure of what to say, the words not quite right. She had turned to look away from him, focusing instead on her fingers as she twirled them around the ends of her braided hair, creating perfect curls. There was a pinkness to her pale skin, a blush. Oh.

She was so unusual, with a distinct air of aloofness between her explanation of the mating pattern of nargles that it was easy enough to forget she had been a Ravenclaw. She was intuitive, more so than most, and while her thought process might have differed from the norm she would still always come to the same conclusion. If not faster. 

“We are friends. And you're right,” Harry said, hissing out a breath of air lowly, relief. He could feel the ball of tightly wound wire within his chest loosen, slack easing on its strangulation. “It's hard to talk about it, is all.” 

Luna said nothing, though she had looked at him once more, her gray eyes as indiscernible as ever. 

“Someone offered me to live with them this summer instead of with the Dursleys,” he explained, settling a hand on Argos's back as he began to whine. “I'd get a whole room to myself, and the freedom of not living with my aunt and uncle.” He left the part out about the bruises, nights spent where he was deprived of food and forced to lay within the closet, knees knocking his chest as he curled up. Too tall to fit within the cupboard that had been his home for twelve years. 

“The problem is, the person who offered it isn't very good. He's hurt people before,” he said simply, the ache behind his eye flaring before waning, turning into a present and irritating prod.

She frowned deeply, the expression looking strange and out of place on her face. He regretted his words immediately, regretted that he had been the cause of such a stern, sorrow filled expression.

She leaned forward. “Have they hurt you, Harry?”

“Not physically,” he answered after some thought. The Dursleys were the only one who harmed him in such a manner, but he pushed the notion aside. Tom may not have harmed him, but he had harmed others. How many before he had been trapped in the diary? How many since he had been freed? Ginny was all he knew for certain, and that was enough. 

Luna leaned back onto her bottom, relieved to learn that Harry had not been hurt. “Well, they can't be all bad. If they're offering their home to you, then you must mean a great deal to them. They care about you.”

Harry snorted derisively, running a hand through his untidy locks. “He doesn't care about me, not really. He pretends he does but...” he trailed off, propping his elbow on his knee and curling his fingers around his chin. After a moment, he added, “And he is all bad.”

“Father says that good and bad is a matter of perspective,” Luna said simply, a measured quality to her voice that made it seem as if she were talking about something as banal as the weather as opposed to theorizing on the psychology of man. “Even our enemies, when they rally against our beliefs, are only doing so because they are defending their beliefs.”

Now it was Harry's turn to frown, the severe expression seemingly decidedly more natural and at home on him. “You're not...making excuses for bad people, are you?”

If she was bothered by the suspicious question, she did not show it, instead saying, “It's just easier to believe that even people who do bad things maybe don't see themselves as so bad. I'd hate to think that someone does bad, knowing it's bad in every context, and still following through.” When Harry said nothing, merely fixed her with narrowed, confused eyes, she added, “Everyone has some good. And you might be his good, is all.”

Harry thought back to the moment he awoke in the bathroom, blood staining his hands and the soles of his feet. “Well, even so, he's not my good.”

-xXx-

The room was cast in shadows, save for the spot directly before the fireplace, flames roaring hungrily from within. A rug with an ornate pattern that looked like it had once been very expensive but had now seen better days was placed on the floor before it, a leather armchair positioned on top of it so that the chair was made almost uncomfortably warm from the heat of the fire. But whoever sat within it did not seem to mind; perhaps they enjoyed the heat or simply couldn't feel it, nerve endings deadened or nonexistent.

Whoever it was, Harry could not see well from his vantage point on the floor. His body was long, stretched out to impossible lengths and curled around him. Where was he? How had he gotten here?

“I'm s-so sorry, Master,” a man said, sitting on his knees and nervously worrying his hands together, tugging at his jumper. He was plump, with thinning hair that was almost colorless and beady eyes that glistened, dampened. 

“Enough,” a voice spoke, firm yet cold and pitched. “There are more pressing matters to deal with in the time being.”

Harry shook his head at the sound, as if all heat and warmth had been siphoned from the room, turning the entire world around him to ice and hollowness. Whatever sat within the chair wasn't human. It was some creature, a monster. 

“Make yourself useful, Wormtail, and dispose of her, she has given us all we need,” the voice- man, creature, demon?- hissed. “Tomorrow we will free him from his imprisonment. There is much work to do in preparation.”

The squat man- Wormtail- rose his head, his lower lip trembling. “Preparation, my Lord?”

The man laughed, a hollow and frozen laugh that made Harry wish to curl his body around himself even tighter. “For my return. All will be revealed in good time, and you will be given the very honorable position of assisting me with it.”

Wormtail blinked sheepishly, lips twisting as he said, “Yes, Master, is it an honor I-”

“Silence! You have much to make up to me, Wormtail, and you owe me a great deal. Do not see it as me honoring you so much as you needing to prove yourself worthy. Now, I'm weary and wish to retire for the evening. You are to milk Nagini for me. But first, Nagini- dinner.”

And Harry was moving- against his want and desire, his impossibly long body slunk forward. Wormtail stepped aside as Harry approached, looking massive from the floor, and then he was rising, curving unto himself as he stood over a woman-

A body.

Her skin was pale and sallow, a sickly sheen of sweat clinging to her. Black hair was strewn across her face, dampened, though he could still see her eyes, wide and glassy. The pupil seemed small and shrunken as if she had last stared into a brilliant light or the sun itself. Her mouth was wretched open, tongue lolling out to the side. It was still wet, and Harry wished to recoil, to move as far away from her as he could. Far away from Wormtail and the monster within the chair.

But he was only moving closer, lurching until he sunk his fangs into flesh, until bone crunched and splintered-

There was screaming, anguished cries, and for a horrific, terrifying moment, he thought that he was wrong. That the woman was alive after all and was crying out as he consumed her, tearing flesh from muscle from sinew-

“Harry!” 

He opened his eyes and sat up, panting heavily. He was in his bed in the south wing, the comforting and pressing weight on him as Argos sat on his legs, whining in concern. A light had been turned on, though it appeared dim through his thick maroon curtains, muffled voices filling the room.

“Wus all the screamin' bout?”

“Potter? You okay?”

He couldn't breathe, the room was suffocating, the air too thin, his lungs not expanding no matter how heavily he breathed in. He was shivering despite the heat that surrounded him, the sweat that made his pajama shirt cling to him, his hair press to his forehead. But most distracting was his scar, which burned and seared so painfully that he squinted his eyes, pressed a hand to it uselessly. It felt as if someone had heated a metal rod before thrusting it forward, stabbing and piercing into his skull. 

A hand still pressed to his head, he reached out and shoved the curtain away, trying to step away from his bed only to tumble to the floor, his feet entangled in the blankets that he had pulled with him.

Several voices called to him, footsteps thudded across the floor, making the pain in his skull greater, more magnified. 

“The screaming-” Harry mumbled, hands tugging and pulling at him. “Where is she?”

“She?” a voice said, a Beauxbatons student named Henri. “Harry, you were the one screaming.”

Harry steadied himself, lowering his hand and forcing himself to open his eyes. To see that he was laying on the floor of his dormitories, not from the floor of the unknown room where a monster with a cold voice spoke to a man named Wormtail. Several faces loomed over him, and he swallowed, suddenly embarrassed by the scene he created. The silence that filled the room as there was no woman screaming to be saved. No serpent consuming her. 

He sat up, pushing his hair away from his ears, his hand wet from the saturated locks. “Sorry, nightmare,” he mumbled apologetically, hiding his reddening cheeks. It had felt so real...

His roommates exchanged glances among themselves, but he ignored them, pulling himself up and onto his bed, even though he desperately wanted to shower. But Argos was still waiting for him, brown eyes wide as he sat hidden in the shadow of his curtained bed. 

He pulled the curtain closed, sat in silence for several minutes as the light was turned out, his roommates grumbling as they returned to bed. The dog shifted up from the foot of his bed, resting a paw on Harry's knee as he whined lowly, eyes wide.

Harry pet him. “You would not believe the dream I had,” he muttered, knowing it was foolish to talk to a dog, but feeling better all the same.

-xXx-

The next day, Harry sat alone in the dormitories, thankful for the quiet and the weekend which drew the students out to the courtyard or the library or wherever else they chose to while away in. His head ached, lingering from his nightmare which hadn't faded from his memory, burned in like an afterimage so that even when he closed his eyes he could still see the silhouettes. The dead and glossy eyes.

He shook his head, turning over in bed. It felt empty without Argos, the dog being handed over to Luna for the time being. It had been only through a stroke of luck that he hadn't been discovered, and he couldn't risk it again. He missed him, and it stung to hand over his invisibility cloak, the only thing he had of his father, but he trusted Luna.

The witch had become, overnight it seemed, a valued friend. For some time they seemed to exist together, sitting side by side in blissful understanding. They never sought each other out in the way friends would, they did not deign to share their innermost thoughts or beliefs, dreams and desires. They were simply alone, together, and it had been pleasant.

But somewhere at some point, the line had been toed, hopped over. It happened suddenly, and without warning. He wanted to hate himself for it, to believe that he was somehow placing her in danger. But he couldn't bring himself to, his thoughts too jumbled to make head or toe of, Luna's words echoing in his head. 'Everyone has some good. And you might be his good, is all.'

He doubted she would have the same sentiment if she knew the entire truth. 

Or, for all he knew, she still might. He had learned not to impose expectations on her. 

But her words remained, curling around his mind. The words that said that Tom had cared for him. That despite his bad, he had cared enough for Harry to make sure he was safe and happy for the summer. Every part of him wanted to deny it, to spit upon the very idea. But it was getting harder and harder to categorize it all so neatly; good and bad. The line was being blurred, and he knew that in many ways Tom was objectively a bad person- he had killed Ginny, and would grow up to be Lord Voldemort.

Those were certain facts, black and white. 

But he claimed that he had been separated from the creature that would truly embody Voldemort, and that, objectively, had to be true as well. How else would they be able to exist simultaneously? 

He claimed that Dumbledore was building an army for a war that was not even on the horizon yet, that Harry was simply a pawn to him. There was a devotion to the older man that would not waver, not entirely. But Dumbledore had still lied to Harry, had tried to keep him in the dark, and that had made his devotion tremble. What else had he hidden from him?

What else did he know about him and his family, only to decide it was not important enough to tell him?

But Tom knew, and he cared enough to get Harry to demand the truth. And he cared enough to give Harry a home when others had only given him a closet. 

He remembered the day that seemed so long ago, like an entire lifetime had passed in between. He held the letter in his hands, the envelope that had been addressed to him. Harry Potter. The cupboard under the stairs.

They had known enough of his life at Hogwarts to know he slept beneath the stairs, and yet, they did nothing except send more letters. 

Why hadn't anything been done then? Why was Tom the first and only one to find a problem with that?

If good and bad was a matter of perspective, than Tom certainly did look more favorable in the moment, Harry begrudgingly admitted, only for his thoughts to run in circles once more.

'But he killed Ginny.'

'No,' a voice in the back of his head chimed in, cruel and taunting. 'You did.'

He pulled his pillow, rolling it over his head as if it would somehow muffle the discord within him. If Tom had been correct that he and Voldemort deviated from some fixed point in time, than there was no definitive way to know that he had hurt someone other than Ginny.

And it was a sin that Harry shared equal part of.

If Tom was bad, than Harry was no better.

He groaned audibly, wishing to force the thought from his mind. He hated the buoying, the constant back and forth. It had been so much easier when he had known for certain that Tom was bad, when he could firmly believe without doubt that Tom did not care for anyone or anything, least of all Harry. But he cared enough to give Harry a home and the selfish part of Harry had been piqued by the idea. The selfish part wanted to toss all his morals and his respect for the Weasleys out the bloody window in favor of a proper bed and a summer spent lackadaisically lounging in the sun.

He wanted to push the thoughts from his mind, to think of anything else, but his thoughts would then turn to that of his dream. It had seemed so real that he could remember with perfect clarity the sound his fangs made as they sunk into flesh and bone. So real that he could feel the heat of the fire, sinking into him. And the voice. The familiar yet forgotten voice..

He had considered telling Luna about it but decided against it in the end. He had already worried her enough, there was no need for him to start rambling about chilling voices and men named Wormtail. She didn't need to shoulder the weight of his grief.

But, try as he might, he couldn't shake a feeling of impending danger. There was the thrum of adrenaline, lighting his nerves on fire, making him anxious and unable to settle in his own skin. 

He flopped over onto his other side. 

He needed to tell someone, he knew, if only to ease the feel of lead as it plummeted in his gut. But who would even care?

Tom cared, he knew. No matter how perverse or twisted his motives, Tom did care. And he would no doubt like to hear from Harry, even if it was for a dream that wouldn't fade. He was constantly vying for his attention after all.

But how was Harry to even contact him? He knew nothing about where he lived or what he did, preferring to err on the side of ignorance. 

Before he could talk himself out of it, he was sliding off the bed and turning to his trunk, digging within it's contents until he found one of the many letters that he had saved. There was no return address, though he wasn't surprised. Tom was no fool, much as Harry hated to admit.

He tore it open, only to furrow his brows and frown. The parchment within the envelope was blank- not so much as a splotch of ink staining it. 

If it had been anyone else, in any other situation, he might have tossed it, summing it up to a mistake. He would have simply forgotten about it. But this was Tom Riddle, and Harry knew better.

With a sigh, he grabbed a spare bottle of ink and a quill, settling into his bed with the parchment on his lap.

'This is a bad idea,' he said to himself, even as he uncapped the well of ink, dipping the brass nib of his quill into it. 'I should walk away while I'm ahead. There is no good to Riddle, and I'm deluding myself.' 

And yet, for reasons he could not understand, he wrote on the page a tentative 'hello?'

The ink saturated the page, seeping in and fading just as Harry knew it would. It did not take long for a new line of text to bubble upward, ink forming the familiar elegant script-

Harry swallowed, trying to stopper the voice within him telling him that this was a terrible, dreadful, awful idea.

'You've finally opened one of my letters.'

He could imagine Tom sitting before a desk, smirking as if he won some sort of victory, and he nearly tossed the letter back into the trunk if only to wipe the smug look of satisfaction off his face. But he took a steadying breath, writing, 'I've had an unusual dream that I can't shake.'

'Oh? What about?'

And so he told him. Of the voice that made his blood run cold and the man named Wormtail. Of the woman with sunken, glassy eyes. And he was surprised by how easily it all shifted, how natural it felt in that moment to be talking to Tom. It was for a moment as if the events last year had never happened, as if Ginny had never been killed and there had been nothing to craft a divide between him and Tom. 

He was surprised by how much he had missed it. 

When he finished describing his dream, he set his quill down, flexing the muscles in his hand. The beginning of his text had already disappeared, the center dim and fading faster. He twisted his shirt in his hand nervously, a worrying ache settling in his head. It should have felt better to talk about the dream, but instead it only felt worse, his stomach flipping and twisting anxiously. Remembering it had only made the the memory of it more vibrant and vivid, and the word master hung in the air like the harbinger of something evil and wicked.

'What if...' his thoughts trailed off as Tom wrote back, his words slanted in the way they did when he was in a rush, Harry hating that he knew something so intimate of the young Lord Voldemort.

'You're certain the man was called Wormtail?'

Of course he was. It was such a strange name, how on earth could Harry have remembered it incorrectly? He said as much, sitting back on his heels when he was done. He folded his hands in front of him, chewing his lip in thought. Seconds were drawn out, feeling longer than Harry ever recalled them feeling. An eternity had passed before Tom finally wrote back, the words plummeting in Harry's chest and dragging him down.

'I don't think it was a dream, Harry.'

He had not thought it possible for written words to be laced with such foreboding. There had been a part of him that had been weary of the clarity of it all, of the strangeness yet familiarity. But the confirmation from Tom- a man too smart for his own good- all at once made Harry certain that he was correct. It was not a dream.

But then what was it? A vision?

Of the past, present or future?

How had he been granted access; why had he been?

The questions circled in his mind, but before he could bring his quill to the parchment to ask Tom of his thoughts, the man had already written back.

'I'll be perfectly honest with you, I believe the other man in your dream to be Voldemort. And that what you saw was a window into his life at this very moment.'

Harry stared at the words, his gaze hard and unyielding even as the sheen of the wet ink shimmered before dulling, sinking into the page, fading, fading, fading...

He read them over and over again, four times in total before they were gone; not even the impression remained. The last time he had seen Voldemort, he had been a parasite, buried beneath the turban worn by Professor Quirrell. He had no form of his own, just a mass of energy and magic and whatever was necessary to keep someone bound to this earth when the earth had done all it could to expel them from it. But his voice...

That same cold and pitched voice, the one from his dream, he now knew, was certain of it. 

But why had he been given the glimpse into his life? Why now had he been thrust forward and become an unwilling spectator to the cruel deeds done at his hand? 

He was stirred from his thoughts by the prompting of Tom, large and bold words curling on the page before him. 'Harry?' It was written hasty and messy, and Harry wondered how many times Tom had tried to capture his attention before he had finally noticed.

'Sorry,' he wrote, his quill scraping noisily over the parchment. 'Do you know why that could happen?' Any sort of apprehension or fear or anger he might have felt had been abandoned in that moment, and he settled into the friendship he and Tom had once shared, like a thick comforter in a bleak and unforgiving winter.

He was smart, and whether or not he was telling the truth about Voldemort being the creature that remained of him or just a more advanced version of himself, he was still a fraction of the man. And who better to understand the Dark Lord than, well, the Dark Lord? 

'I'm not sure just yet. I've been doing some research that isn't wholly complete on its own, but obviously this will have to take priority. With no understanding of how or why this works just yet, we must be cautious. If you have access to him, there's the possibility he'll have access to you,' he wrote, making Harry's insides twist uncomfortably. It was a possibility he had not considered, too much to process in a single moment. His throat tightened, his mouth suddenly dry and aching. Could Voldemort see him talking to Luna? See him talking to Tom and plotting against him?

He shifted, the unsettling realization that he was being watched washing over him, making his flesh prickle. He tightened the curtains around his bed, as if doing so might somehow prevent Voldemort from seeing him through whatever connection they were bound by. 

Turning his attention to the parchment, he wrote, 'What do we do then? Until you can complete your research?” It did not occur to him that had said 'we', taking comfort where there was once rage that Tom would not abandon him. That he would be, annoyingly and thankfully, steadfast. It did not occur to him that he was implicitly trusting Tom. 

'Keep this parchment on you. I'll write to you if anything turns up. Until then, wherever he is, he's too weak to do anything, so you're not in any immediate danger, but there's no doubt he's got something in the works. Be weary of everyone and their loyalties, and if you have any more dreams or if anything is out of the ordinary, tell me at once.'

Perhaps it was the authority with which he spoke, but Harry agreed, a sense of relief filling him that Tom was not only taking Harry's concerns with his dreams seriously, but was genuinely concerned with helping him. And he tried to shove it all down within him, how much he hated that Tom had been the source of such relief. 

The man was like a parasite, but instead of living on the back of his head and poisoning him from the inside out, he lived within his brain, slowly festering away, unnoticed.

-xXx-

Tom set the quill down and ran a hand through his hair, tidying it uncharacteristically. Harry had just bid him good bye, followed with a tentative and strained thanks. And now it was just him and his thoughts and the pressing weight in his brain that Voldemort was far more reckless than he could have accounted for.

It was indignant, a disgrace, that this man had taken his name and identity only to run rampant with it, tear it asunder with his foolhardiness. It was hardly the legacy Tom had hoped to forge- a legacy consisting of being brought down by a mudblood and her infant son; his followers either locked away for what remained of their wretched lives or turned against him at the first sign of his defeat. It was a far cry from the loyal masses who would lay their lives down for him, fall to his feet. It was a far cry from the kingdom of bones and altars of worship that he had envisioned. An immortal being, he was more than lowly muggles, more even than the finest witches and wizards. He was a god.

'And how the gods have fallen,' he thought bitterly, rising from where he sat to fetch himself some more tea. Somewhere along the lines, sometime after having entrapped himself in the diary, he had faltered. Perhaps it was his sordid dealings in dark magic, or the constant chipping away of his soul only to lock the fragments away, but at some point Voldemort had morphed and shifted into something other than what he had always intended. Tom was pragmatic to a fault, and more than willing to sacrifice what was necessary to achieve his goals. The lives of others, his former identity, and his looks (though he would be remiss to say that they weren't advantageous).

But his sanity had never been on the table. His calculation and ability to think ten steps ahead were not up for trade.

And yet, all of it had been forfeited. Lord Voldemort had been as divorced from Tom as he could be, yet intrinsically tied together by virtue of who he had once been. It was a disgrace, and his rage was barely tethered at how distorted his future had become.

And even when he was without a wand, when he was nothing more than withered shell, he was still preparing for something- no doubt a final and desperate attempt to return to a proper body. If the details from Harry's dream had been correct, and if Tom's assumption was right, than he had even made another horcrux, whittling away at the sliver of soul once more. 

It had been the most logical conclusion of course, as Harry had not seen through Voldemort's eyes but from the eyes of a creature below him, a familiar. And the shared soul between them could act as a catalyst, the vehicle through which one could observe the other. It was the most sensible solution, but he couldn't very well tell Harry that. Not yet, at least. He may have reached out to Tom, a fact which made him smirk with barely contained glee, but he was still a Gryffindor. Dumbledore's pet. 

If he knew that he harbored a piece of Voldemort's soul inside him, he would do something foolish, like through himself off a tower to ensure the dark wizard's defeat. That would certainly do Tom no good. A waste of a perfectly good horcrux.

No, it was a precarious situation. Give too much information to Harry, and he could do something righteous in the name of the greater good. Give too little information, and Harry could twist his own rhetoric onto him, compare him to Dumbledore and distrust him once more for withholding something so vital. 

He sighed, raising the kettle and pouring it into his cup, steam billowing up and around him. The tea leaves unfurled, plump with water. He was in for a long night, abandoning his research of his future- Voldemort's past- in favor of researching horcruxes. Living horcruxes were unprecedented as far as he knew, making it all the more taxing. It should have been exhilarating to wander into unknown territory, be the first to study something so unique and intriguing. Instead, it was exhausting, knowing that Harry's safety- his own horcrux- was on the line should he fail.

If this was what it was like to care about others, he couldn't see the charm of it.

With a fresh cup of tea, he returned to his chair, scraping it along the floor as he ungracefully settled in, several tomes opened before him. Settling the cup into its saucer, he reached for the slim journal, the leather cover the color of a deep wine and wrinkled from its constant use, the edges of the pages gilded in silver. The unlined pages were cluttered in his writing, neat and small and filling the entirety of the paper, from the top to the bottom. With a sigh, he began to reread the quick notes he had made of all the details of Harry's dream, taking a part each aspect, each spoken word remembered, and analyzing it. Searching for any clues to what the former Dark Lord and his pathetic servant were plotting.

Voldemort may have had fifty years of knowledge and power, as well as a once grand army, but Tom was hardly concerned by it. Perhaps it was his arrogance, but he had his own mounting advantages against the man. A wand, and a clear and untarnished mind. Voldemort was too reckless to even see Harry for what he was, and would no doubt relish the idea of unknowingly destroying his own soul. 

But even more than that, Voldemort did not know of Tom's existence. That his own self- an arguably better, more full and charming and persuasive version- was wandering the earth at this very moment. And that Harry was slowly leaning more and more into him, something that even the more devout of Voldemort's followers would soon do as well, in time. 

With careful planning, and in due time, Tom would have everything. The wand, the horcruxes, Harry, the army.

No, he wasn't very concerned about Voldemort at all. In the end, he would be nothing.

-xXx-

The rest of the year passed without another dream, much to Harry's relief. He had carried the enchanted parchment on him, just as Tom had instructed. But he never removed it from where it sat at the bottom of his rucksack, soft and curling from being pressed beneath his textbooks. He had not spoken to Tom since that afternoon, and Tom had not reached out to him. It was, he decided, better that way, regardless of whatever kinship had been forged between them in their shared sin.

But the desire to reach out to him had been great, Harry's will weakening only to resolve moments before he could write to him, the nib of his quill saturated in ink. It was confusing, the duality of it all. He longed for the relationship they had once had, the ease that had been there before the world had been turned upside down. But he knew that they could never slip into such a role so easily, not when the distrust had created a chasm between them. 

A part of him, the same small sliver that seemed to turn on him at every opportunity, whispered to him that he was alone in this world without Tom, that without him he had nobody. He was nobody.

It simply wasn't true though, he knew. He had Luna and Argos, the two meaning more to him in the few months they had shared than he thought plausible. It had pained him to leave the dog behind, even with the knowledge that the house elves would feed him over the summer, leave food out for him in the garden. He hadn't wanted to part for even the summer knowing full well that once he did, the voice would win.

He would be truly alone then, the spiders in his cupboard not the best of company or companionship.

No, the desire to speak to Tom had never been so great as it was in that moment, with Harry sitting upon a bench outside King's Cross station, shivering as the day faded to the veil of night. The artificial glow of light poles replacing the warm and pink light of the sun- vanished from sight- the sky now a thick blanket of darkness. 

The train, having brought him back to London for the beginning of summer, had dropped him off at noon time, as it did the two years prior. And yet, the Dursleys had been nowhere in sight, the young wizard settling on a bench with no other option but to wait and hope that they were simply tardy, delaying the moments until they would welcome home their burden of a nephew. That had been hours ago, and his stomach growled with hunger, his breakfast that morning all but forgotten, and his tongue felt dry and weightless in his mouth. He had no money- no muggle money, at least- and he had long since given up hope that the Dursleys would arrive. 

He sighed, running a hand through his hair as he stood, knees cracking. Hedwig hooted, flapping her wings as if to demand freedom from her cage and he frowned, unlocking the mechanism. 

“Fly ahead without me. I'll meet you there,” he said, pulling the door of her cage open. 

She blinked, her golden eyes wide, as she poked her head out. She seemed hesitant to leave him, but he ran his fingers along her head and down her back to coax her. “Go on, I'll be fine. I'll call the Knight bus again.” 

Reassured, she hopped out, stretched her wings impressively before taking off, the breeze causing Harry to shiver more fiercely. He watched her as she flew through the sky, becoming smaller and smaller with every second, relishing in the freedom. When she had become so small he could raise his hand and cover her with his thumb, he grabbed hold of his trunk and the empty cage, trudging along to a more discrete alley that he may summon the Knight Bus without incident. He had no muggle money, but more than enough for a ride on the magical transport.

Though this time, he would do without the cocoa.

-xXx-

Privet drive was quiet when Harry arrived, his stomach moving freely about his abdomen as he stepped onto solid ground with trembling legs. The world felt as if it were shifting around him, he the axis to which the earth spun, and the bus had driven off even as he wavered unsteadily, blinking frantically in the hopes it might settle his vision.

“Next time I'll walk,” he muttered below his breath, placing a steadying hand on his trunk for support. When the dizziness faded and his eyesight no longer swam before him, he could see the Dursley home, all the windows dark despite the relatively early hour of the evening. It was a Friday, which normally meant the small and stern family had no matters to attend to the following day- no school or work or even church. As such, they often took their time retiring, with Dudley even staying up into the wee hours of the morning. 

Strange, Harry thought, pulling his trunk alongside him and walking down the darkened street, television sets shining through the windows of neighboring homes. A child shouting excitedly broke the silence, curfew momentarily forgotten as summer came to stay. He watched as a car drove by, slowing to look at the funny sight of a skinny boy pulling a trunk that was practically the same size as him, an empty birdcage clanging noisily against it as he rolled over the grooves in the sidewalk. 

He came to a stop outside of number four, blinking curiously at the sight of an empty driveway. A sinking feeling settled into him, weighing and dragging him down as the realization that he had been left behind clicked into place. 

He wasn't quite forgotten, he knew, as he was sure the Dursleys had been well aware of his return when they left. He considered for a moment that maybe they had at last gone out to fetch him from King's Cross just as he was arriving. But he dismissed it, cynical and certain without knowing how that they had strategically abandoned him.

'You're alone, Harry,' the voice whispered to him as he pulled his trunk to the steps that led to the door, locked, and sat on the stoop. 'You've got no one now, not Luna or the Dursleys or even arachnids. They've left you. Perhaps they're spending the weekend out of town, visiting an old friend or family. Perhaps they've left on holiday and won't be home until next week or even later.' 

He tried to ignore the cruel words, but it was of no use. Cruel though they were, they were also true. He had been abandoned. He was alone. And there was no telling when they could return, how long Harry would be forced to wait for them. He couldn't use magic to unlock the door- it would hardly be of any use to get himself expelled and spend more than just the summers with them. 

He considered breaking in, the old-fashioned muggle way with a rock and his hand wound within his jumper. But that would be even worse, if possible, the alarm company alerting the local police to the break in. He imagined what it might be like to be arrested, sitting within the police car as the siren whooped and the lights flashed. He would be stuck in a detention center until whenever the Dursleys fancied their vacation over with, and even then would be forced to pay to replace the window. 

Hedwig came to sit beside him, dipping her head to tug playfully at the loose threads of his jumper. He settled a hand over her back, the feathers soft and thick over the fragile feel of her bones. He did not know how much time had passed, but he counted it in the lights as they flicked off in the windows of neighboring homes. He counted it in the night sky as the stars shifted and moved over top him. The pain in his stomach had vanished now, a hollow numbness that was easier to ignore. 

Of course the Durselys wouldn't want him there. Just as Tom had told him, they were still irate about what had happened with Marge, perhaps fearful of him even. Though they had never wanted him there to begin with, merely tolerating his presence despite their utter hatred of him. It wasn't fair.

He hated the thought of it- it seemed so childish and ridiculous to even say- but it wasn't fair. Why did they keep him there if only to bully and abuse and torment him? Why did they not turn him over to the proper services the moment he arrived on their doorstep if all they intended to do was to lock him within the closet?

There were plenty of childless couples who might have fostered him, would have been kinder to him. And yet, he was punished for no discernible reason to be stuck with a family that reviled him. They didn't want him, and the feeling was quite mutual. 

But someone did want him, he thought, the idea coming to him unbidden. Tom had offered him a place in his home for the summer, a place where he wouldn't be locked out until the night turned cold and dark and the moon hung high in the sky. A place where he would be wanted.

'No,' he thought, shaking his head as if doing so might dispel the very notion from his mind. But he was unable to, the idea unfurling before him, tempting him.

The little voice had returned now, whispering to him that he was better off, that he deserved to have what everyone else had. Why was he denied the right to a home? Why was he allowed to suffer on a doorstep at midnight? 

'But he killed Ginny,' he countered against the voice, the knowledge heavy and weighted in his mind. 

'So did you. There's no sense being a martyr. He cares for you, offered his protection. You told him of your dream and he listened,' the voice retaliated, growing stronger, louder among the sound of crickets and wind rustling through manicured trees. 'It would only be two months. Besides, what if his claims about Voldemort being separate from him are true? He could be a great ally, if you let him.'

Another voice came to him at that moment, the kind and sweet voice of Luna. 'Well, they can't be all bad. You could be his good.'

When all was said and done, Harry might have said it was because he was too tired and cold to properly argue. That he had grown dizzy and lethargic and was simply desperate for some comfort; food and a bed and warmth. And even as he cursed himself, whispered an unheard apology to Ginny and her family, he couldn't stop himself as he opened his trunk, digging through it until he found his rucksack. 

With any hope, Tom would still be awake.

-xXx-

Arabella Figg tutted to herself as she opened the door to her home, her teeth digging so fiercely into her lip she worried she might chew right through. She should have inquired about him sooner, the moment she suspected something was off. 

She had just come back from visiting the Dursleys, after nearly a month of not seeing a single sight of Harry Potter. She knew the family had gone on vacation- visiting some family in the country, they claimed- beginning the day Harry returned from school. They returned a week later, and in the weeks that followed she had seen no other child other than the horrid one, Dudley, milling about the home. Petunia tended to her own gardens, and they had seemingly hired a company to trim the bushes and clip the lawn. A van had been parked out front when they had had the exterior painting touched up, the shutters a cleaner and blander shade of beige than they had been before. Vernon brought out the trash nightly, cleaned his own car on Saturday afternoons.

All chores that Harry had otherwise done, the boy seemingly raised with shears and a hose in his hand. 

She had asked about him in passing, received vague platitudes to his well being. “He's not feeling well,” Vernon had said one morning on his way to work, chuckling nervously. “Went to a new school this year and came back with a host of illnesses.”

“Oh, he's fine. He just can't be bothered to leave the house,” he had said on another occasion.

She began to grow doubtful of their claims, but had decided not to jump to conclusions. They were by no means the friendly sort, but she didn't quite think they would resort to something truly wretched like selling or abandoning the boy. Still, there was a feeling she couldn't quite shake, and one evening she finally headed over, a freshly made tart as an offering. 

“I didn't want to waste the fruit, but I certainly don't need a whole tart for myself,” she had explained when Petunia blinked at the dessert, her mouth opening and closing sheepishly. But Figg ignored the obvious discomfort, smiling sincerely at the thin and sharp woman. 

She invited her in after a second of hesitation, had made her some tea and invited her out onto the patio where Vernon and Dudley joined them. A bit of exploitation on her part- the Durselys were ever concerned about their reputation and it would be quite rude to turn her away- but it had worked like a charm and halfway through the inane drivel of Vernon's work stories punctuated by Dudley's rude groans of boredom, she set her tea cup down and asked.

“Is Harry about? I'm sure he would love some dessert.”

It was as if she had something outrageously vulgar, or as if she had suddenly sprouted a second head and the family was too afraid to say something about it, eyes turning wide. Petunia pinched her lips, looking as if she had just sucked on a lemon and Vernon chuckled, his face turning blotchy as he dabbed at it with a napkin. 

“He's actually gone to stay with a friend this summer. Left this morning.”

She stared at him for a second, pursing her lips in thought. “Well. Good for him, then. Haven't seen much of him this summer and I'm glad he's enjoying it.” 

The conversation that followed was stilted, Petunia quiet and all anxious energy while Vernon had suddenly grown very impatient, looking to his watch at intervals before standing brusquely and saying that he and the family were to be meeting a friend out for dinner in half an hour and it was lovely to see you, and thank you so for the tart it was delicious. Until next time, then.

One need not be a legilimens to know that they were lying, though about what she did not know. Surely they would not be so cruel as to allow harm to befall their nephew? She admonished herself, berating her decision to wait so long. Dumbledore would have told her if he knew of any plans for Harry to accompany someone else during the summer. How long had he been gone for? Had he really been there all along until recently, simply flying below the radar? Had he been there at all?

Where was he?

Her stomach was heavy, and she feared the worse- she couldn't help it! Black was still nowhere to be found, evading capture with the expert ease of a criminal. And after the death of the young girl at Hogwarts- still unknown, whoever or whatever her attacker had been- it was hard to deny that there was something sinister brewing, like a storm that hung low on the horizon. 

She swallowed her worries- it would do no good- and grabbed a fistful of floo powder.

Wherever Harry was, Dumbledore would find him, she was sure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know the teaser in the last chapter mentioned Dumbledore meeting with an Auror member but I cut it last minute. Just wasn't feeling it. 
> 
> But don't worry! The order will be right on the case of the missing Harry Potter in the next chapter! Also coming up in the next chapter: Voldemort plots and Harry returns to Beauxbatons where a friendly competition is brewing...


	6. The Search, the Painting and the Memory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Harry spends a surprisingly pleasant summer with Tom, the Order begins searching for the lost Boy Who Lived.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not remember the name of the user to give proper credit (if you do, let me know so I can!) but a Tumblr post floated around awhile ago that the reason the Dursleys were so exceptionally cruel was because they were living exposed to a Horcrux- Harry- for all those years. While it's a pretty easy theory to poke holes into, I always thought it was a neat concept (and honestly would have loved for his horcrux to be more active in the books, which is pretty much what this fic is premised on.)- Not that it excuses or justifies the Dursley's treatment of him, of course, it was just an extra dimension I thought worth exploring. It's the drama it creates that I love, if I'm being honest. I'm a messy bitch. I sort of went with that theory here, as you'll soon see.

(Beginning of Summer, in which Tom brings Harry to his home)  
“Well?” Tom asked expectantly, settling the trunk down on the linoleum floor of the cluttered and dated kitchen. When Harry said nothing, unsure of what to say now that he willingly stood inside the home of the young Dark Lord, he added, “It isn't much, but it's home. Quiet. You haven't eaten yet, right? I can make up a sandwich if you'd like. I've also got some dried pasta if you don't mind waiting for it to cook.”

Harry finally turned to watch him as he flitted about, opening the doors to a pantry which creaked and groaned in protest and he opened his mouth only to close it, stammering over the words. It was startlingly normal and domestic, and he was still waiting for the decision to go with Tom to turn against him, for a large snake to slither out from hiding and for the disembodied voice of Voldemort to cackle from another room. He had half-expected it to be a trap, a year long ruse of manipulation and torture and the promise of solace only for it to be torn from under him.

But there was no high-pitched laughter, and when Harry did not answer Tom poked his head out from the pantry to look at him, a brow raised. “Harry?”

He shook his head of the thought. “Sorry...a sandwich is fine.” 

Tom pulled a half eaten loaf of bread out, closing the pantry behind him as he made his way to the squat and ancient fridge. “I've got some ham in here, if you'd like. A bit on the dry side I'm afraid but more than edible. I might have some cheese as well-”

The sound of his voice was dimmed by the glass jars clattering together as he rummaged through, Harry turning away from him to examine the home. It was an old farmhouse, sitting on a large plot of overgrown and ill-kept land. Ivy crawled up the shingled facade, creeping underneath the wooden siding and growing within the very structure of the house, the gray paint chipping away to reveal the old wood below. The kitchen was uneven, it was the first thing Harry noticed, the floor dipping down in the center where the table and three mismatched chairs sat below a bare bulb. The cabinets were original and slanted on their brass hinges, the tiled counter dingy and cracked. 

It made Harry crinkle his nose- this was hardly the place he had imagined for Tom. Everything about the older boy was thoughtful and perfect, not a stray curl deviating from his coif. He was ever aware of his appearance- almost comically vain- and his lips always skewed into a scowl when he saw Harry's untidy hair and his over-sized, baggy clothes. 

Tom was sleek and cosmopolitan and the house was rustic and dilapidated. 

“Where did you find this place?” Harry asked, eyeing the old and worn cookbooks on the counter, the lovingly displayed china that sat separate in a corner cabinet, the sort of china that Aunt Petunia had that he wasn't even allowed to clean, so precious it was. This house had belonged to someone, once upon a time. This was someone's home and these were their things and his stomach twisted with the revulsion of what Tom might have done.

If Tom knew what turbulent thoughts were running through Harry's head, he did not acknowledge it, shrugging as he layered uneven cuts of cheddar over top the ham. “An estate sale. The owner died several years ago and the house never went because of its distance to towns and cities, not to mention a crumbling foundation and mold problems. It was a steal.”

Harry turned to stare at the back of his head, trying to determine whether or not it was true or just another crafted lie. 

Tom turned, carrying two plates- each topped with two sandwiches- with him to the table and settling them down on opposite sides. “I can fetch you the legal documents if you're so inclined. I'm sure there's even a copy of the obituary we can dig up.”

He settled a jug of milk in the center of the table, conjuring two glasses that twirled on the soft tablecloth before coming to rest by the food. Harry's stomach growled noisily, and it took all he had to not leap across the kitchen and stuff as much food in his mouth as physically possible. Straining to use his manners and not startle Tom, he sat down and brought the sandwich to his lips, tearing a too large bite off.

The ham was dry, the meat thick and chewy and the bread a tad on the stale side. But it was food and he savored the flavor as it sat on his tongue, enjoyed it even as he struggled to swallow the lump that sat like a heavy weight in his stomach. It was uncomfortable, in the most pleasant of ways.

When he finished his first sandwich, he paused, taking several sips of milk as he carefully avoided the look of concern Tom was giving him, dark blue eyes unusually soft. 

“So your family just...wasn't there? They simply went on holiday?” he asked. He hadn't even touched his own food, and Harry blushed, suddenly realizing that Tom had watched as he devoured his with the ferocity of a feral creature. 

He shook his head, cleared his throat- the ham really was too dry. “Honestly I'm surprised they made it this long before officially abandoning me. They've come close before, I guess. When I was eleven and was first going to Hogwarts they dropped me off only to drive away while laughing. They thought the idea of a platform nine and three-quarters was funny.” He wasn't sure why he had shared so much, a simple yes would have been more than adequate. He grabbed the other sandwich and took a bite before he could reveal anything else, this one smaller and more manageable.

Tom took a bite of his sandwich, chewing thoughtfully and slowly, and they sat in silence for some time, the only sound the occasional clink of a glass as it was settled back on the table. When Harry had finished he settled his hands on his lap as the strangeness of the situation settled in- now what?

In answer to the unspoken question, Tom said, “I'll give you a quick tour in a moment and bring you to your room, but before that, there is something I'd like to discuss.” He took a bite, considered his next words as he ate. Harry tried to steady his nerves, trying to not twist the simple words into anything more than they were. But this was Tom, and he immediately bounded to worst case scenarios, imagining that the sandwiches were poisoned or that Voldemort was hidden in the next room over.

“I think I'd like to teach you occlumency over the summer.”

Harry frowned, narrowing his eyes. “Occlu...what?”

“Occlumency. It's the art of blocking your mind from intrusion...legilimency, as it's known as.”

“Why?” Harry asked, only to scowl when he remembered that Tom had once told him he could read his mind. Though it did only make the question of why all the more confusing- why would Tom want Harry to guard his mind? It seemed the sort of thing that Tom would want access to, invading him like a disease.

“I've spent the last several months researching and theorizing about Voldemort and how we're all tied together and I think it might be the safest route.” Harry shivered at that, not liking the idea of being linked to such men- a parasite which thrived in chaos and destruction; a pretty monster who spoke in only lies and manipulations. Tom blinked at Harry before continuing. “I don’t think he knows yet about the connection, but he won’t be in the dark forever. And when he does discover it, I can’t take the risk of him trying to use it against you. And I’m certain you wouldn’t want him poking in your head, seeing what you see?”

He shook his head, glasses sliding down his nose with the erratic motion. He didn’t dare think about what havoc would be wreaked if Voldemort were privy to his thoughts, to what was happening to and around him. But there was a problem with Tom’s plan, and Harry frowned as he said, “I can’t use magic outside of school though.”

“You won’t need to. It’s essentially meditating. It’s a very difficult skill to master, but we can at least begin, that way you can continue to practice once school commences,” he answered. He pushed his plate away from him, one half of his sandwich remaining, and leaned back in his chair. “So, you think you want to give it a go?”

“If it means keeping Voldemort out, than yeah, sure,” he said. He might enjoy it, after all- getting to learn another facet of magic, immersing himself in the world he loved so much, yet was kept from for two months of the year. He had always loved learning, and Tom was, he begrudgingly admitted, a wonderful teacher. He recalled all those days where he had gone into the library to study, only to find his questions better answered by the blank diary than any text on the shelves.

His thoughts were interrupted by a loud thud, and Harry startled, looking up to where the single bulb shook in its place. The ceiling- sagging in the center- seemed to tremble with the reverberation of whatever had made the noise. He raised his head, watching as the chain hanging from the ceiling continued to shiver. He swallowed thickly. “What was that?”

Tom paused, looking at Harry thoughtfully, ends of his lips twitching. “A surprise for you. Getting rather rambunctious, if I had to take a guess.” The words were not malicious, nor was there anything that ran between them that might have said otherwise; there was no harshness between the syllables, no cruelty worked between the playful inflection. And yet, it caused Harry to still, a small voice in his head condemning him, admonishing him for ever having thought he could trust Tom Riddle again when it had only ever resulted in blood that settled in the lines of his palms, a map of his sins. 

What sort of surprise had Tom wrangled for him? What could possibly be locked away upstairs, impatiently waiting for Harry to stumble upon it? His thoughts went first to Voldemort, the insubstantial parasite that remained of the wizard. The one that had sunk its very being into Quirrel’s head, digging unseen talons into gray matter, teeth into synapses, until nothing remained of the man except a vessel, one which would be easily disposed. How might he exist now? 

It was impossible to imagine, a soul existing without a body. Not quite a ghost- a bit too real, a bit too corporeal. There was still a strength that lingered, the ability to possess someone, to feed off them. Still some magic that sparked and ignited within the nebulous veins, that ran through the nothingness, like the thunder that hissed and spliced through heavy storm clouds. 

He was pulled away from his thoughts by the sound of a chair- his own chair- scraping across the floor, one leg tipping over the uneven tilt of it. He stood, wand slipping out from his sleeve to rest in his palm, a comfort, a security, and made his way to the threshold where the kitchen spilled out to a dark hall. He placed one hand out to clutch at the molding of the archway, the other coming out before him as he wielded his wand, peering into the darkness. 

At the end of the hall was a large door, surrounded by two thin windows that ran the same length of it- the front door, no doubt. There was a chandelier that dangled just above, the chain running all the way from the ceiling, through the second floor and down to the first. It was coated in a thick layer of dust, cobwebs forming between the spaces of each separate arm. There were no decorative prisms or suspended crystals that meant to refract and bounce light, each cup enclosed by a shade made of stained glass. It might have been pretty if it were cleaned up, the ambers and crimson and navies of the glass muting and dimming the light, but it looked as if it had not been used in some time, and as if Tom intended to keep it that way. 

There were two doorways midway through the corridor, standing at opposite ends of the wall- a parlor, a study, a dining room. Nothing, Harry was sure, of note, so he turned his attention instead to the large staircase, divided in half as it was split into a corner angle, obscuring from view the second floor that was shrouded in darkness.

“You’re far too suspicious- are you certain you were not a Slytherin?” a playful voice came from behind him, the words warm as they curled around the shell of his ear. He gasped at the sudden closeness, his muscles tensing and flinching and he jumped, his back pressing against something soft yet sturdy. 

Tom was standing directly behind him, had reached out a hand to place against Harry’s shoulder and steady him. When had he moved so close? He had not heard the sound of a chair, the creak and groan of the ancient floor beneath his weight. 

“I’m only suspicious because you’ve never given me a reason to trust you,” he hissed.

He didn’t need to look over his shoulder to know that Tom was smirking, one brow raised and dark eyes glittering as he said, “You don’t trust me, and yet you’ve taken my invitation to stay with me all summer? You’re either very foolish, or very brave then.” He paused before adding, “Or both.”

Harry certainly felt very foolish. He had willingly allowed himself to be dragged here, all because his stomach was taut with hunger and his skin prickled with gooseflesh in the cold. What had he been thinking? 

He hadn’t been thinking, he chided himself. He had given in to something weak, something selfish and pathetic and now here he stood, crouched within a doorway as he gazed into shadows. The sound came again, a soft thud, followed by a crash, as if something fragile had been knocked to the ground, shattering into pieces. The chandelier trembled slightly, dust motes, just barely visible in the light from the kitchen, fluttering in the air. 

He moved forward, away from Tom and the oppressive feel of his chest against his back, his wand raised. The staircase creaked under his weight, the whole house an orchestra of rotting wood and sinking foundation. Tom followed behind him, muttering something below his breath that Harry did not hear but knew to be a taunt. 

Tom was, at times, remarkably childish, Harry thought, though he shoved the notion away. To see the boy as childish was to underestimate him, and he would not fall into that mistake again. 

He came to the top of the stairs, instinctively reaching his left arm out, trying to find a light switch only to meet air. Tom sighed behind him, flicking his wand. There was a three second delay before the light flickered once, twice, than finally settled, casting the hallway in a dim, orange light. The upstairs landing was large, wrapping around the staircase that sat in the center, a chain running down the empty space and to the chandelier below. Large windows took up one wall, though they were covered in heavy and ancient drapery, the plaid pattern nearly indistinguishable beneath the dust. The three other walls that wrapped around him were covered in peeling wallpaper, a chipped and dingy wainscoting that came halfway up the walls. There were doors dotted randomly about, the one before him with a strip of light below it. 

“Go on then,” Tom whispered behind him, his voice tilted in amusement. “Go and conquer the beast, Brave Gryffindor.”

Harry skewed his lips, narrowed his eyes as he turned to look at Tom over his shoulder, wanting nothing more than to push the boy in the chest and send him reeling down the stairs. Each crash evoking a musical note from the noisy stairs, a descent marked in creaks and groans. But he didn’t; instead he turned to face the door once more, bridging the distance between him and it and twisting the door knob, pushing it forward and revealing the lit room.

He didn’t even have the chance to examine the room, eyes landing on the massive form of the black dog. Wide, brown eyes grew bright with recognition, and before Harry could even properly realize what was happening, Argos flung himself forward, massive paws coming to Harry’s shoulders as he fell over. A wet nose prodded about his face, fluttering in sharp inhalations as if checking him over, making certain the boy was alright. Harry wheezed out a breath, the weight of the dog- so thin and frail looking, it seemed impossible he weighed so much- bearing down on his chest, making each breath a struggle.

“Argos,” he hissed, nudging the dog away so he could sit up. Argos whined, stepped backwards so that he was settled between Harry’s knees. He was anxious, head bobbing as he looked over Harry, brown eyes wide. Harry reached out, scratching the dog’s ear, the fur matted and scraggly. “What are you doing here?”

Tom stepped forward to answer, standing uncomfortably close to Harry so that he was forced to lean forward, away from the oppressive weight of his shadow. “I thought you might like to care for him yourself. Besides, I won’t always be available and I thought you’d like some more consistent company,” Tom said, his tone souring as Argos barked harshly, hackles raising and baring his yellowing fangs. “Though of course, the best way to handle an aggressive mutt is to put it down.” There was a sharpness there, the warning- or, more accurately, threat- and even Argos understood the intent, his bark turning into a low growl. 

Satisfied, Tom grinned, turning his gaze back to Harry. “It’s late. I’ll let you get comfortable- we can continue our talk and plans for the summer over breakfast.” He rose a hand, gesturing to the room where Argos had been concealed, was impatiently throwing himself against the door before Harry opened it. “This is where you’ll be staying. My room-” he gestured now to a room opposite Harry’s, across the hall and the winding staircase. “Is right over there. If you need anything, I’ll either be there or my potions laboratory, down in the basement.” He turned around, walking away from Harry even as he continued to speak. “Feel free to help yourself to the kitchen or the library over there. And don’t worry, this house is heavily warded against intruders, you’ll be perfectly safe here.”

When he stood in front of his bedroom door, Tom finally turned to face Harry, lips curling into a smile, shadows falling across the sharp contours of his face. “Sleep well, Harry. I’ll see you in the morning.” With that, he disappeared, leaving Harry alone with Argos and the strange thoughts left behind in the curious boy’s wake. 

-xXx-

“Two weeks have passed, and still not a single report you’ve gone missing,” Tom muttered, tossing aside the Daily Prophet and turning his attention back to his scrambled eggs. 

Harry settled his fork down, reaching across the table to pick it up, pulling it into his lap as he scanned over the front page. There was nothing of great note, the headline news being yet another post about the much anticipated Quidditch World Cup- which teams still stood a chance to play in the game, and which teams were most expected to. Smaller blurbs sat around it- one dedicated to the upcoming school year and a project that a Bartemius Crouch, Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation, was quoted to be ‘very much looking forward to’ and ‘unlike anything they’ve seen before.’ Another blurb was offered to pay mind to the still closed school of Hogwarts, and the mystery that lurked within- one which resulted in the death of a young student. Still no leads in an investigation that had run cold, the tragedy passing it’s anniversary date just a few months prior. 

His stomach churned as he returned the paper to where Tom had left it, his appetite gone. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you wanted the Ministry to be tracking you for kidnapping me,” he said, trying to keep his tone light even as his smile twitched and faded, the words lingering in his mind, twisting and turning over and over again. The anniversary of the tragedy. Over a year had passed since Ginny’s death, and here he sat, chatting with Tom over eggs and sausage. 

“I could have killed you by now,” was all Tom said, dark blue eyes turning up to meet Harry’s own, lips pinched. “I could have killed you and Dumbledore wouldn’t even know. You would think that there would be better systems in place.” He stood now, chair scrapping noisily over the floor as he tossed his dishes into the sink. “Voldemort is out there roaming about, and Dumbledore couldn’t even be bothered enough to make sure you get home safe? Would it have been so much to send someone out? He could have even gone out himself, not as if he’s so busy being unemployed and all.”

“Why do you care?” Harry interrupted, trying to keep his voice level. Tom had been surprisingly pleasant for the few weeks he’d been there, but he knew what potentially lurked beneath the surface. That Tom’s moods could be mercurial, that there was very little to separate him from the boy he was now to the man he might grow to be. 

“I care because Dumbledore clearly doesn’t,” Tom hissed in response, turning to lean against the counter, his eyes narrowed and jaw clenched. “Not only did he leave you to be abused and mistreated by the Dursleys, but he doesn’t even check in on you? Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, going missing should be front page news but instead your absence hasn’t even be noticed.” He sighed, raising a hand and scratching thoughtfully along his jaw. His voice had risen, words being spat out as if they left a horrid taste in his mouth, but when he spoke again, his tone was soft, calm. “Why don’t you care?”

“I-I..” Harry stammered, unsure of what to say or even what he would say if the words could come to him. Why didn’t he care? 

Was it because he was used to being invisible, the broad strokes of the Dursley’s negligence leaving him comfortable in the feeling of being forgotten? He preferred it even- it meant they were not actively seeking to harm him, to torment or belittle him. Being unseen, the day slipping by with no one speaking to him or even acknowledging him as he passed- those were the good days. That was the standard that he had set himself when he was back in Privet Drive, that was where his spectrum lay, between the margins of abuse and negligence. 

Or did he not care because he ceased expecting others to? How many knew of the way he lived and did nothing to stop it? The damning address marked on the letters Hogwarts first sent to him, the fact that the Weasleys had seen him in the room and pulled the bars from his windows and still did not mention it beyond using it as an excuse for breaking the rules. Of course they had to leave past curfew and steal the car, Harry was locked in a room, hardly getting fed. And then it was never brought up again. 

He didn’t care, because no one else seemed to. Not really, at least.

Except Tom. Again, when all others turned a blind eye, reacted with apathy or sympathy with inaction, Tom was the only one who cared. Enough to change it. Enough to help him.

Harry shrugged, wanting the conversation to end. He hated when Tom made him feel this way, twisting his thoughts until they became traitorous. He hated that he was beginning to agree. “The Dursleys are probably lying and hiding it. I doubt they want to get in trouble for losing me,” was all he said, knowing that it was a weak and pitiful excuse. What chance did muggles stand, lying to wizards? 

But Argos was whining, the pitch high and irritating and Harry was thankful for the distraction, tossing his uneaten sausage on the ground for the dog to eat. “Go on, better than to waste it,” Harry urged when the dog did not immediately turn to eat it. 

“What are your plans for today? Can’t fly, not with this storm,” Tom asked, turning his attention to the windows and the rain which pelted against it, turning the world outside into a nothingness of gray and the low rumble of distant thunder.

Thankful that Tom had let him change the topic- surely, if Harry didn’t buy his own excuse, neither did Tom- Harry sighed. “I don’t know.” 

He had gone flying everyday since arriving, going so high that he could reach the domed ceiling of the ward Tom had placed over the farmhouse, fingers pressing against the otherwise invisible shield that shined iridescently as Harry prodded against it. It had felt wonderful to spend his summer this way, soaring high alongside Hedwig, releasing and catching the snitch over and over. He hadn’t played Quidditch since his second year, had barely even flown on a broom since entering Beauxbatons and he had nearly forgotten how wonderful it felt, how freeing. He did somersaults and loops, had counted how long he could fly upside down for before his head felt too heavy and his vision blurred. And when he became too tired to fly, he would lay in the overgrown grass, the heat of the sun settling over him like a blanket, reading the books Tom had given him for occlumency, Argos curled against him. Writing letters to Luna that Tom promised to send to her after charming them for security.

“Can we practice occlumency?” he asked. “Like real practice, not just me reading about it and you telling me techniques?” He had yet to actually try keeping Tom from his mind, had merely spent the few weeks studying and attempting to meditate. Something he was abysmal at as Tom enjoyed reminding him- “You’re not clearing your head,” Tom would say, adding “And thinking about how bored you are is only going to make it more daunting.” 

He hated being reminded that Tom was privy to his most intimate thoughts. But how could anyone possibly not think anything at all?

Tom hummed. “I have some potion orders to fulfill, but afterwards we can try. You should help with the potions, it doesn’t require magic and it will go by faster that way.” Before Harry could argue against spending an entire day with Tom, the wizard had grabbed hold of him and hoisted him up, leading him down to the basement.

-xXx-

(August 12, the Evening After Arabella Figg writes Dumbledore)  
Petunia Dursley prided herself in keeping a good home. The garden was always bright and well manicured, the exterior of her home clean and neat- she had on more than one occasion instructed her nephew to sweep the path leading from the driveway to her home, even as he argued that such a task was ridiculous. She valued order and control, she thrived in routine, so it came as no surprise that she was practically electric with her nervous energy, twisting her fingers in her lap.

It was nearly nine in the evening now, and the roast she had made for dinner would be cold and untouched, having sat on the table for two hours. They were just preparing to sit down and enjoy supper when a loud pop rang through their home, bringing with it swift chaos and disorder. 

And now she sat on her sofa, Vernon beside her, his face red and mottled. Dudley had been sent upstairs, with much protesting on his part, as her living room became stuffed to the brim with people she did not know, though many whom she recognized in the stories and memories that Lily brought with her all those years ago. She had only met two of them before, the older wizard with the long white beard tucked into his belt- Dumbledore. 

The other she had known from childhood, long before she had learned of the bright and loud and magical world that she could never be part of. He sat quiet in the corner, looking just as pale and dour as he had as a child, though his clothes were tailored for him and not a much older, larger person. His hair was still lank and greasy, his nose somehow looking even more crooked than she recalled. Had he broken it since she last saw him?

She was drawn abruptly from her reverie by a harsh, callous voice, spoken by a man with an erratic glass eye and chunks missing from his scarred face. “You don't even care, do you? That he's missing. That he could be in danger. Hell, he could be dead and in an unmarked grave while you went about your summer like-”

“Alastor,” Dumbledore interrupted, his voice as soft and measured as Alastor's was grating. The man stopped his tirade, though he mumbled something cruel below his breath that made her flinch.

She swallowed thickly, lowering her head to avoid the judging gazes and stared at her lap, at her too bony fingers as they wound in the skirt of her dress. Her mind was a fog, it was hard to think. It all seemed so clear and easy when Harry was there- he was a burden, a presence in their life they had not wanted that brought nothing but grief and misery and anger. 

But when he was gone- when he was away at school and the shadow that seemed to move with him dissipated- it was less clear. What had he actually done that was so bad besides existing in a strange and frightening world? He was still a child, her sister's child, nonetheless. She had loved her once, she knew, but somewhere love had been replaced with jealousy and resentment and bitterness. How? When? Why?

She would vow to be kinder to the child, in honor of her sister whom she had loved and lost. But then he would return for the summer, and with it came the shadow and the cloud and she called recall with perfectly clarity just how rotten he was. 

A pattern of cruelty even she couldn't quite understand.

“Where did you think he would go when you left him alone? He's fourteen years old, you think that's old enough to figure it all out?” She looked up- it wasn't the rough voice of Alastor, though not quite as soft or measured as Dumbledore's, fire and judgment lacing his words. The man who spoke might have been handsome, if not for some deep scars that cut into his face. 

She fumbled for words, her tongue too dry, when Vernon cleared his throat. “He's got magic, hasn't he? I'd think he'd be fine while we went to visit my sister- who is petrified of him and won't dare come over even when he's away!”

The same man frowned, narrowing his eyes. “Why is she petrified of him?”

“She was here when that man- Black?- came after him. Did a number on her,” Petunia answered, though the memory of that night was a bit of a strain to recall, like a dream she had dreamt a long time ago. Strange- perhaps it was the trauma of the evening.

“Her memory was erased,” Alastor spoke, his voice a sneer. 

She blanched, her temper swelling at his doubtful tone. She shook her head, hissing “I know that! But she's still afraid of him. It's like something from that night...lingered.” 

He always seemed to linger.

“So you just left him to fend for himself...leaving Black the perfect opportunity to snatch him?” The voice belonged to a young woman, her face pinched and stormy, her hair a ghastly shade of blue.

The indignation rose in her, growling within her chest. “And what would have changed if we had been here, then? Would Black have slaughtered my family? Am I just expected to put my safety- my son's safety!- on the line for him?” she yelled, her voice filling the all too crowded space, wavering despite her bravado. A deal had been a deal, sure, but she would only do so much for that boy. For her sister. The safety of her family was not on the table.

“May we see his room?” Dumbledore asked, and she exhaled sharply. 

“Why?”

“I'd like to see if he settled in at all. Determine when within the week you were gone that he disappeared,” he asked, his soft tone darkening, words unsaid staining the ones spoken. 

She swallowed, sighing. “His room is used for storage. He's only hear for the summer, after all, so until he returns that's how it stays,” she lied, knowing that there was no sympathy that would be gained if they knew where he really slept. That the spare bedroom they had given him had only been his for a few months between his first and second year. 

Dumbledore did not falter, inclining his head towards her. “I'd still like to see it. To make certain whether or not he did manage to get settled.”

She did not answer, biting her lip and turning her gaze to meet Vernon's. She could bring them to the spare room, though there wasn't even a bed in there, just some of Dudley's old toys and forgotten school books. Before she could think of the matter any further, a creak cut through the silence, gooseflesh prickling her skin. She turned in the direction of the sound, her breath hitching as the door to the cupboard under the stairs swung open, just barely visible from where she sat.

“Tonks, would you mind taking a peek in that curious closet?” Dumbledore asked, though there was no hint of amusement or kindness in his voice. His eyes did not move from Petunia, even as the girl with wild hair- Tonks- crossed the room and into the hall, falling to her knees and looking within the cupboard. She reached forward, pulling the string that attached to the bare bulb, light spilling outward. She stared at what Petunia knew was a thin, worn mattress, a matching blanket and pillow. There were some personal trinkets kept upon the shelves directly under stairs, tattered books Harry had outgrown but kept regardless. 

Tonks sighed, the sound more like a growl, as she rose to her feet, slamming the door closed with such force that it bounced in the frame, opening as she walked back. “How long has he been sleeping there? Can't imagine a crib fit too well under there, eh?” Her words were vicious, taunting, as she rounded on Petunia, her wand gripped threateningly in her hand. 

“Nymphadora,” the man with cuts marring his voice said imploringly, and she growled, turning to him.

“Remus! They made him sleep in a closet half his size! Don't act like you wouldn't love to hex away his bollocks and her ugly mu-”

“I understand Black is the more obvious culprit, but all else failing, I believe we may want to consider the possibility that Potter ran away,” Severus interrupted, speaking for the first time since the party had disturbed the Dursley’s supper. There was a silence, a look of contemplation flitting over their faces. 

Alastor scowled. “And go where? He sure as hell ain't at the Weasley's unless Arthur here is enjoying the wild goose chase.”

A man with a round belly and fiery red hair frowned, shook his head. “No, obviously not. What about Hermione? Though I don't think she'd let him do something as irresponsible as just leave without owling it to someone...”

Dumbledore shook his head. “I'm afraid that Harry and Miss Granger have gone their separate ways. He avoided her all year and when I visited she expressed her concern over his sudden change of behavior.” He looked pensive for a moment, raising a hand and tapping a finger against his lips idly. After a moment, he added, “I believe Severus may be right, in a way. I believe someone- Black, though I wouldn’t discount others- may have spent the previous year, if not longer, manipulating Harry.”

“Black broke out at the end of the summer last year...do you think that's enough time?” Remus asked, his voice low and heady, something to his words that Petunia couldn't quite distinguish, his eyes focusing on a fixed spot on the floor. There was anger and bitterness, yes, she was quite acquainted with those feelings. But there was something else, a sort of sadness to them maybe. 

“Harry was inquisitive about Black. It's possible he somehow got in contact with Harry and managed to...twist things to him. He was friends with James and Lily before betraying them to Voldemort, he could have used that to endear Harry to him.” 

Petunia's head shot up at the statement, the sadness and betrayal, yes it was betrayal in Remus's voice. Because this man, Black, had been friends with them all and had betrayed Lily- her sister- to the man who killed her. He was responsible for her death and now he had her nephew?

There was a tightness in her chest, and heat prickled behind her eyes. The air was thinning around her, and she could hardly breathe, it was too sparse, there was not enough of it. There had been a veil of disassociation, a convenient forgetfulness. They had told Harry that Lily and James had died in a car crash, and even long after he discovered the truth, it was as if she had been living in that reality. The reality where her estranged sister had died quickly in a traffic accident. 

She had somehow managed to separate herself entirely from the fact that her sister was murdered. That there had been a war- though Petunia did not know the details, had detached herself from Lily and ignored her incessant chatting about the world that would forever elude her. Her sister had fought in a war, had been hunted down by some...beast. And betrayed by someone she had loved and trusted, someone who had wormed his way into her life. Harry's life.

She was stung by the betrayal, not of Black's, but her own. She had allowed- through her neglect- her nephew to fall to the same fate as his mother and father.

She had loved Lily once, she recalled. 

“But why wouldn't Harry tell anyone? If Black did turn him I doubt it was in one afternoon. He had to have worked on him for months. Why wouldn't he tell someone?” Tonks asked, the voice startling Petunia from her thoughts.

It was Alastor who answered. “A tongue-tying curse, I imagine. Most iterations are childish in nature and easy to break, but the darker ones...” he paused, stroking his chin thoughtfully before adding, “Some are practically Unbreakable Vows, though they don't require the consent of the second party. Generally they hinge on a sacrifice, though not of your life. I once worked with a mute who lost his voice after being placed under such a curse and trying to break it. Terrible curses. Terribly dark.”

“So Black curses him to silence, spends a year trying to earn Potter’s trust, then takes him for the summer when he’s most vulnerable,” Severus drawled, turning an unreadable gaze to Petunia, the inky black eyes looking down on her. “Sounds like an awful lot of work, and for what? Do you think he could be working in conjunction with the Dark Lord? That Potter was needed alive?”

Dumbledore looked thoughtful, eyes worn and weary as if he had not slept in some time, the exhaustion making him appear even older, making each wrinkle deeper. Fingers ran down the length of his silver beard, blue eyes looking about him as if he might find Harry hiding underneath the furniture. “It’s possible. Alastor, why don’t you and Tonks go ahead and alert the Minister, rally the Aurors and tell them what we believed to have happened. They’ll want to perform their own investigation no doubt, so Arthur and Severus while stay here to ensure that nothing is altered while we await their arrival.”

Petunia opened her mouth to protest, that her home was not open for these strange people to just traipse about it. That this was not a crime scene no matter how much they wanted to make it one. That she was under no legal obligation to allow them in- she was not a witch, and these were not her law officers. 

But Dumbledore rose a hand to silence her before she could even speak, turning then to Remus and a stern looking witch, graying brown hair pulled back in a tight bun. “Harry may have lost touch with Hermione and Ron, but he did make friends with another witch. Luna Lovegood, a former Ravenclaw, I’m sure Minerva remembers her. Why don’t you two pay her a visit and see what she can tell us about Harry. How he behaved, anything he said that might not have been stopped by a tongue-tying curse.”

They nodded, dutifully, each readying to fulfill their task, a sudden flurry of energy taking hold of them. A purpose, a drive reigniting them. A loud crack, followed by a pitched pop made her jump and press against Vernon as Tonks and Alastor disappeared in a plume of smoke, followed by Remus and the stern-faced woman, Minerva. Arthur began to rummage about the home, peering into Harry’s closet himself and tutting angrily before heading upstairs.

“My son!” Petunia called out sharply, not wanting Dudley to get pulled into this...this mess. This weird and chaotic world that was quickly enveloping her, threatening to strangle her. She made it to the landing before she was stopped, fingers curling around her wrist and pulling her down roughly. She stumbled, inclining her chin to meet Dumbledore’s eyes.

“Your son will have to be interviewed, but I assure you, he will not be harmed,” he said, voice cold in a way that even Petunia knew to be uncharacteristic. “Let’s you and I have a chat. Is there somewhere private we can speak?”

-xXx-

Luna Lovegood’s room was just as colorful and whimsical as she was, standing against a space that was organized in a manner only the one who organized it could discern. The walls were murals, each hand painted, lovingly and delicately. This wall was a canvas of the night sky, a deep navy saturated with swirls of magenta and violets, bright hot stars forming constellations. The wall opposite it was a garden of fauna and flora that Remus wasn’t even entirely sure truly existed, but the certainty of each line, the vibrancy of the colors of the unfurling petals made him believe they were. The other two were unfinished, hazy lines and solid blocks of color that would be deepened and fleshed out when she had the moment. Twine ran across the length of the room, paintings clipped to it that he tried to examine but there were so many to get lost within he forced himself to stop and look to the girl before him.

Her long hair, the color of wheat, was tied into several braids, sprigs of lavender poking out from random knots, and she was smiling at him and Minerva sweetly, as if she were receiving a visit from long-ago friends.

“Here they are,” she said, handing the letters to Remus that had been opened and then carefully placed back within their envelopes, bound in twine. “See? Harry can’t be missing. He’s been writing me all summer.”

Remus returned her smile. “So he has. Do you mind if I take them? I’m sure this will help everyone feel better about his disappearance?”

Her smile slipped, and she hesitated. “I’ve never gotten letters before,” was all she said.

“We can make copies, then? And you’ll keep the originals?” he offered, knowing how painful it could be to lose that physical link to your friendship. That it wasn’t the letters she wanted, but what they meant to her.

She nodded slowly. “That would be alright, I guess.”

“I’ll do that,” Minerva offered, taking the letters from Remus’s grasp and settling down at Luna’s desk to copy them, pushing aside tins of watercolor- the dried dollops mixed with all the colors she had not cared to wipe from her brush.

“You and Harry became good friends this year?” Remus asked, slipping his hands into his pockets.

Luna perked up at that, eyes glistening fondly. “Yes. He can be a bit distant sometimes, but that’s alright. He’s always nice to me and listens to me even when he thinks I’m being silly. I’m smarter than people think, you know? But it’s fine that he doesn’t always believe me, because he’s still kind and pretends to believe,” she prattled on, her adoration for the boy evident in the lilt of her voice, the wistful look on her young face, still round in her youth. 

Remus felt himself smile despite his concern for Harry and the fear that Black might have him. He had never gotten a chance to meet the boy, but he knew he looked like his father, like James Potter but with a terrifying scar and Lily’s eyes. His personality was all Lily, however, and he imagined that she would have been proud to hear the reverent way Luna spoke of her son. 

“Has he ever told you about anything going on in his life outside of school? Maybe another friend who didn’t go to school with you?” 

Her eyes looked upward in thought, humming slightly. “He did mention something about being offered a place to live for the summer. Not with the Dursleys.”

Remus felt his heart skip, his pulse heighten. The sound of papers shuffling ceased, a chair squeak as Minerva twisted to listen in. “Did he say with who?”

Luna frowned, shaking her head. “No. Just that he had hurt some people, but wouldn’t hurt Harry. That he was nice to him, at the least.” She averted her gaze then, cheeks coloring. “I told him to do it. Is it my fault he’s gone?” Her voice had lost its airy quality, dread and regret weighing it down and making it heavy, too heavy for the young girl. Her lip trembled, and her eyes had turned watery, tears clinging to her lashes as she tried to hold them back.

Remus bent down at his hip, gripping her shoulders tight and reassuringly. “Of course not. Like you said, he’s still been sending you letters, so he must be fine. I know you were just trying to give him the best advice you could. You were being a good friend, Luna,” he told her, and she sniffled trying to believe what he said. Pretending to believe, just as Harry had done for her.

Minerva said something then, about how the letters had been charmed to be untraceable- magic far too advance for Harry even if he could perform magic- but Remus did not hear them, the sound of his pulse becoming overbearingly loud. He did not see it before, too lost in the clutter of everything else, but from this angle, bent to Luna’s height, he could see the painting just above her bed. The one that sat above her pillows- the one she would see first thing in the morning if she slept facing the wall.

Remus stood, stepping aside the young girl and towards it, reaching out and plucking it from the where had been taped up. 

“I was thinking of giving that one to Harry. Do you think he’ll like it?” Luna asked, voice warbling over her unshed tears. 

It took him a moment to answer, unable to look away from the painting. “He’ll love it, Luna. But what is this a painting of?” he asked.

“The day I met him. Under the willow tree in Beauxbatons. There’s me,” she said, pointing to herself, a crown of ugly flowers over her head. “Harry. And that’s Argos.”

“Argos,” Remus repeated, the words metallic on his tongue, like poison. “Argos is your dog?”

She shook her head. “Our dog. He must have been a stray, we started taking care of him last year.”

The words barely registered, the sound of his heartbeat like the crashing waves of an ocean against the shore. Last year. Sirius Black had escaped just before the beginning of the school year. Sirius Black, an unregistered animagus whose likeness was captured quite well by Luna’s talented hand. He tried to speak, but had to stop as each word stopped short, become a monosyllabic utterance. Hastily formed expressions as he felt something overcome him. Rage? Fear? Betrayal? Perhaps it was guilt, guilt that hadn’t revealed the hidden abilities of his childhood friends. Guilt that he could have saved Harry from this if he had only told someone to be on the lookout for black dogs.

It was his fault, wasn’t it?

“Wh-where is...Who has Argos now, Luna?” he asked.

“The house elves at school agreed to feed him for us. Until we could come back,” she answered. 

He glanced to Minerva, who was looking at him with concern and questions she wanted desperately to ask but held back for Luna’s sake. “Remus?” she asked, sounding very much like the teacher she had once been, the one who often admonished him and his friends when their lives were much simpler. She knew, he realized, the moment he had begun to sweat and shake at the picture of a dog…

She knew. 

She knew, and because of him, Sirius Black had Harry.

-xXx-

“You told Mr. Potter and Miss Lovegood you would feed their pet dog for them while they were out for the summer,” Dumbledore said to the house elf, long and knobby fingers pulling nervously at her eyes which flapped with each bob of her head. “That was very kind of you. Have you been doing so?”

She made a noise, a cross between a growl and a keening sound, not unlike the panicked bleat of a sheep. “No, no, no. Bosky was going to, even though its against the rules, Bosky is sorry for breaking the rules!”

Madame Maxime smiled reassuringly, gently patting the elf’s bulbous head. “It’s alright, Bosky. Why didn’t you feed him?”

The elf shrugged her thin and narrow shoulders, twining her fingers. “Bosky was going to but when she went to feed him, he was gone. Doggy must have run away when the kids left.”

-xXx-

“Legilimens!” Tom shouted, wand raised at Harry who stood before him, the wind rustling and pressing against them, as if trying to uproot them from where they stood. It was as if he was pulled into a tunnel, his mind lurching forward, across the distance between them. There was a wall of resistance, one that Tom nudged against with greater force. Harry was getting better, stronger. Where there had once been nothing to stop him, an open book ready and waiting for the entirety of the world to slip through its pages, there was now a base, something for Harry to build upon. It was not flawless by any means, but it was a difficult skill to hone, one that many witches and wizards would never manage.

This was the Harry Tom most enjoyed. There were many facets to the young boy, much like Tom himself. Though while Tom’s were all pretenses, carefully manufactured and tailored for whatever task was needed, Harry’s were all genuine. It was as if there was too much of him to be contained in one simple vessel, as if he were more complex than anyone else in the world and donned a different mask for each one of his complexities. 

The honor-bound martyr Harry was decidedly the one Tom liked the least, and thankfully the one he was wearing away. Like a sculptor chipping at marble, unveiling his masterpiece, so too was Tom chipping off the pieces of Harry he didn’t care for, the ones he found too tedious. Too exhausting. Leaving nothing but perfection and beauty in its place.

But this Harry, the one standing before him and groaning with pain as Tom tossed himself against his mental wards- Tom liked him most all. He was smart- he really was, when he wasn’t encumbered with self-doubt or worrying about being the savior the world wanted him to be. He wasn’t as intuitive as Tom, though hardly anyone was, and it was no matter, Tom didn’t mind explaining things more concisely to Harry, cutting information up into bite sized pieces for him to consume. 

He wanted to learn- he wanted to be able to guard himself against Voldemort, and he clearly had great respect for the magical world, the one that belonged to them. There was a desire within him to learn all it had to offer, to be part of something that had been denied to him for most of his young life. A desire to finally belong.

Perhaps Tom was being sentimental, seeing himself in this Harry, this ravenous version of Harry that wanted more. There was a potential for power, the ability to do great and wonderful things. He could see it lurking, when Harry stopped caring about that insipid Weasley girl or stopped worrying that Tom was going to kill him at any moment. 

When Harry stopped trying to be what the world wanted him to be, when he was stripped of the layers Dumbledore imposed on him, he was strikingly similar to Tom.

It was with that thought that Tom finally managed to break through, the walls crumbling around him and leading the way to a deluge of memories. Of Harry, small and young and reaching out with desperate, searching fingers, a single word falling off his lips as tears streamed down ruddy cheeks. Mommy, mommy, mommy. He was reaching out for a mother that wouldn’t come, an aunt that slapped his hands with a wooden spoon and yelled at him for calling her that name. An older Harry, looking ridiculous in an over sized sweater and slacks that were too wide for his legs, cinched at his middle with a belt and the cuffs rolled up to keep himself from tripping. He was running down the halls of a school as a larger boy chased him, threatening to shove his head down the toilet. But Harry was fast, and he dashes out to the school courtyard, turned down an alley and...finds himself suddenly on top of the roof, rain pouring down him and make the sweater sag in the weight, clinging to him.

Tom felt Harry push against him, trying with all his might to get him out of his head and rebuild his walls. But why should Tom go easy on him? What good would it do for Harry? It wasn’t as if Voldemort would give him the same courtesy, and Tom can’t afford for Voldemort to see what Harry sees. Not when it would reveal the existence of his younger self to him.

So he remained, unwavering and unrelenting, letting memories flash before him, snippets that he could grasp onto but didn’t find interesting enough to do so. Until he found a later one, of Harry- in that same sweater, though now it fit better- standing in front of a mirror, gazing at his own reflection. But the mirror was charmed, and the reflection reached inside its pockets and produced a stone- maroon and sharp, the flat surface refracting the light of the torches that fill the room. It seems to be filled with a fire of its own, flames trapped within the polished gem the color of blood. The reflection dropped it back inside its pockets, and Harry’s fingers twitched at the sudden weight. 

‘What a curious mirror,’ Tom thought as he stepped closer into the memory, so that he stood just behind Harry and the man beside him. But before the scene could unfold any further, something tugged at him, pulling him by the collar as something else shoved against his chest. With a gasp of breath, Tom was thrust from Harry’s mind, falling to the ground.

But he doesn’t stop- it was as if the ground disappeared and he fell into an abyss, the gaping maw of a beast. Fingers are curled around him, clutching the collar of his oxford and when he finally stopped falling, it was not to the ground of his farmhouse, into the unkempt grass. But on the hard floor of a building he did not immediately recognize.

Not at first- the recognition came to him slowly, in mounting horror. The walls of tattered wallpaper, the floral design fading and grimy from years of wear. The floorboards old and dingy and they creaked with any weight against them- but not Tom’s, he was weightless in this moment. He remembered it all, knew exactly where he was even as his mind argued against it, and yet he was still shocked to see himself- his younger self, the child he had once been in a time that seemed centuries forgotten. 

And yet, despite how small this Tom looked, even to himself, he was being flanked by two men, dressed in the same uniform: white slacks and a matching jacket. He was struggling against their hold, shouting out with a young and prepubescent voice, “No! Stop! I’m not mad! I’m not!”

“We’re just going to do some tests to make sure you’re healthy, son,” one of the men said, trying to coax him down to the automobile waiting just outside the orphanage. An ambulance. “You’ll only have to stay at the hospital if you’re sick.”

“He was talking to snakes! I saw him myself, out in the garden. He was talking to them like they were people.” came the shrill, frightened voice of Ms. Cole, the matron appearing from just outside the corridor, face pinched as if she had eaten something rather foul. “Of course he’s sick! And he’s dangerous, he’s already hurt too many of my children and I’ll not stand idly by while he does it again!”

One of the men nodded sympathetically. “We understand ma’am, we’ll have him seen by the doctor as early as possible.”

And they began hauling him out, even as Tom began crying- fake tears that looked frighteningly realistic, a desperate act by a child who knew exactly what to do. “I was just playing! It was pretend is all!” the words sounded pathetic, made only more so by the childish pitch, the way they stumbled over his cries. But it would work. Tom would return to the orphanage only a few days later with no diagnosis other than being a lonely child with quite the imagination. Ms. Cole had been less than convinced. 

Tom turned, meeting the green eyes that had settled on him. Harry, wide eyed and confused, unsure of how he managed to get here. How he managed to drag himself into Tom’s memories in his attempt to guard his own.

When Tom shoved Harry out, it was with more force than was necessary, anger filling him that Harry had seen something so private, so intimate. Harry yelled out in pain as he fell to the ground, his hand cupped and cradling his head that no doubt felt like it was being split in two. 

‘Good,’ Tom thought, seething with untethered rage, trying with what little, tenuous control he had over himself to not reach out and curse him. Curse Harry until he was twitching and panting and coated in sweat. Until he begged him to stop. 

Harry rolled onto his back, looking up at Tom through squinting eyes. His glasses sat askew, knocked over from when Tom had shoved him back too hard. “S-sorry. I...I didn’t mean to.”

He was afraid, and something within Tom delighted in that. Fear meant you held power over someone. Fear was almost as wonderful as worship, the cowering at his feet like a bow, the pleas to stop like prayers and kisses to the hem of his robes. 

But he held himself back, stopping just sort of standing over Harry, his jaw clenched and trembling, the crowns of his teeth grinding down so hard he thought they might turn to dust. He didn’t want Harry to be afraid of him. He needed- wanted- Harry to trust him, to yearn for him above anyone else. 

“It’s...alright,” he forced himself to say, hoping the words sounded more natural than they did to him. “I didn’t expect you to do that.” Then he reached out, offering his hand as Harry stared at it dubiously, wondering if it was a trick. “I’m sorry if I hurt you,” he added, and after a moments hesitation, Harry finally accepted, allowing Tom to pull him up.

He wanted to twist his hand, twist it until the bones in his wrist snapped and he cried out in agony. But he didn’t, letting go of his grasp when Harry was standing.

“Do you-” Harry started, but Tom ignored him, turning on his heel to disappear into the basement.

He had enough occlumency lessons for a day, and Harry seemed to agree. He didn’t follow him.

-xXx-

The next morning, Harry wandered towards the kitchen tentatively, lingering in the door frame as if deciding against going in. Tom was sat at the table, bent over the morning’s Daily Prophet, a bowl of porridge long forgotten before him. 

He had been avoiding the boy ever since he had somehow entered Tom’s mind during his lesson, the memory that was not his own playing over and over in his head on an infinite loop. And even when he fell asleep, hoping for a moment of reprieve, he instead dreamed of it all over again. Of the cries and shouting of a child as he was dragged away. He looked no more than six years old, and the image clashed against the one of Tom he had grown so used to. The image of a young Dark Lord capable of evil, reduced to tears and desperate, juvenile pleas. 

“Are you going to come in or do you just intend to stare?” Tom snapped, startling Harry from his thoughts. 

He felt his cheeks burn at having been caught, and mumbled no as he walked in, pulling a bowl from the cupboard. Each sound seemed amplified, the creak of the door as it swung, the clunk of the bowl against the counter. The cereal shifting in the box as he poured it in, Argos’s large paws as he padded to Harry’s side, growling low in his throat; a grating symphony of the tension between them. 

He sat the box down, stared at the cereal for a moment, wondering if he should just eat it in his room and avoid Tom for one more day. He dismissed the idea, though. He was a Gryffindor after all- once upon a time. 

He was speaking before he even realized he was. “My aunt and uncle brought me to an orphanage, you know. I found the paper work one day when I was cleaning the garage. It was the day after my parents died, when they saw me on their doorstep.” He didn’t turn around to look at Tom, worried that doing so might shatter the small bit of peace between them. Like a tightrope pulled taut between a great distance. “I was only there for two days- I don’t know what made them come back. They certainly didn’t want me, so I just don’t understand. A part of me wishes they had left me there.” 

When Tom said nothing, and the silence felt too much like mocking, Harry finally turned, holding the bowl of cereal in both hands. If he was startled to find Tom looking at him intensely, he did not show it, trying to steady himself against the dark blue eyes, the ones that seemed to see through him. Taking him apart and breaking him down to nothing.

“I always thought the Dursleys were worse, but maybe that’s not true,” he said, unable to stop himself from speaking now that he had started. A stream of consciousness that he had no control of, each word making the next one worse. He felt, all at once, stupid. He had never even told anyone this, and hadn’t thought of it much outside of that afternoon when he was eight years and covered in dust and cobwebs, sorting through filing boxes and crates of holiday decorations. Sometimes he thought he had even imagined it. 

But Tom did not try to stop him, even as he followed Harry’s movement through the kitchen, his eyes unblinking as Harry sat down and settled the bowl on the table. There was that silence again, feeling too much like laughter and judgment. “I thought you lied about it. The orphanage. I thought you made it up to get closer to me.”

“No.”

Harry jumped at the word, not expecting a response. Tom was still staring at him, but his gaze had softened a bit, narrowed in curiosity. “I’m sorry,” Harry said, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “I know what its like growing up without a family. I can’t imagine anything other than that would have been good.” Argos whined, butting his head against Harry’s shins but he shooed him away, his own curiosity blossoming within him.

What had happened to Tom’s family? It seemed like a foreign concept- Lord Voldemort having a mother and a father. How old was he when they died? Did he remember them at all? Did anyone? 

At least Harry had something, nebulous as it was. The fond recollection of his parents from those who had known them, the assurance that he looked exactly like his father but with his mother’s eyes. He had some photos, thanks to Hagrid, and he knew their names. Did Tom even know his parents’ names? Or were they lost forever? No one to remember them, no legacy for even their son to hold onto?

It was terribly sad, and Harry found himself actually feeling bad for Tom. Growing up without a family was tragic enough, but what if Tom hadn’t come back to the orphanage? What if he had been trapped within the asylum forever, just because he existed in a world that did not understand him? The same thing could easily have happened to him, Harry knew. That if they thought they could get away with it, the Dursleys would surely lock him away forever. And who would believe him? Magic and potions, three-headed dogs and trolls so tall they knocked into chandeliers. He’d be considered a loon, and would never see the light of day again.

Never see Luna again. Or Hermione. Or Ron. Or Argos.

He would never see Hogwarts or Beauxbatons.

He would simply exist between two worlds, the one that thought him mad, and the one that had forgotten him. The thought was terrifying, and he felt his pulse quicken at just the idea of something so cruel.

“Here,” Tom said, interrupting his spiraling thoughts, tossing the Prophet across the table at him. Harry blinked, shaking the images from his head as Tom added, “And with only two and a half weeks to spare.”

“Huh?” he muttered turning to the newspaper to find his face staring up at him, underneath a bold headline.

‘Boy-Who-Lived Lost: Harry Potter Not Seen Since Arriving Home for the Summer’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve always headcanoned (it’s a verb now) that the Dursleys would have tried to get rid of Harry, only for Dumbledore to intervene. I just can’t imagine them abiding by a strongly worded letter. Again, I cannot stress enough that I am in anyway justifying Harry’s abuse- I understand that Petunia’s POV bit could be misinterpreted that way, but that is certainly not the intent. In that same vein, and though I think this goes without saying, it is important to note that in this story, Tom and Harry will never have a healthy relationship. Even if Tom adopts an entirely new personality, the foundation of it can never change. This is just personal for me; I don’t think any relationship with Tom would ever be healthy without his character being massively OOC. If you were looking for something healthy, this is not the story for you.
> 
> Also, as I’m sure you all have guessed by now, next school year will feature the Tri-Wizard Tournament. My plan for this fic has always been to use the existing years as templates, twisting things as needed for this AU. The main reason for this is because I want to spend the time focusing on Harry and Tom’s relationship as it shifts and changes, as well as his relationship with Dumbledore’s and the Order, and of course, on Voldemort learning of his other half. Using the canon years as a template allows me to do that without getting lost in trying to create and tie together plot points, as well as turning an already substantially long fic (each chapter is roughly 10,000 words, and there will be several for each school year) into a tedious epic where we, essentially end up in the same sort of places and situations as the canon material anyway. 
> 
> That being said, and clearly unable to use Hogwarts for the tournament, I will be using another school in its place. 
> 
> Thank you all for reading! I hope you enjoyed!


	7. The Article, the Train Station and the Cries for Help

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After reading the article on his disappearance, Harry is upset and finally contends that Tom was right. He returns to school and is met with questions he can't answer, and Tom returns to plotting how he'll usurp Voldemort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning, Harry’s abuse is explored a little more in this chapter. I know it’s been shown in all the chapters, but there is a point where there’s a steady stream of it in quick succession. It’s not graphic, and is just a quick mention, but I still felt the need to warn for it. Also, Harry’s horcrux is beginning to get more active now.

Chapter Seven: The Article, the Train Station and the Cries for Help

Harry said nothing as Tom approached, twigs snapping beneath his steps, rocks kicked in his path. He heard him, then felt him standing over him, like an obelisk that would always shadow him. He had ran off from breakfast table, newspaper crumpled in his fist as he burst through the door, the screen slamming harshly in its frame. But that had been some time ago- twenty minutes, an hour...two. Harry did not know how much time had passed with him sitting in what had once been a garden, reading the article over and over again. Reading it so many times that he had memorized it all.

‘Harry Potter- otherwise known as the Boy Who Lived- has been reported missing. Sources have determined that after arriving at King’s Cross following the end of his third year, Potter never made it home. Living with his muggle aunt and uncle, his disappearance was not reported until over a month had passed, the official Ministry report coming back at 3:26 this morning after a formal search of his home revealed no further leads. 

‘Finding Mister Potter is our highest priority,’ Minister Fudge stated during a press conference, the news of the missing teen quickly making waves through the community. ‘All efforts are being made to ensure his safe return.’ 

When asked about what led to Potter being gone for over a month without any report or welfare checks, Fudge quickly dismissed the question. This comes as a particular concern, given the escape of convicted Death Eater last summer, Sirius Black, whose whereabouts still remain unknown-’

“I can bring you back. If you want,” Tom offered after a moment, his voice soft as he cut through Harry’s internal monologue, the constant and unending rereading.

Harry shook his head, not looking up from his own image, the lines from where the paper had been crumpled, folds cutting across his head, his eyes and lips. “No, I don’t. I don’t want to spend the next few weeks answering their questions and being treated like a delinquent.”

“They’re worried,” Tom said.

Harry snorted. “Yeah, so worried they didn’t realize I was gone until almost the whole summer had passed.” It was too easy to ignore the reality, the summer with Tom existing on a separate plane of existence, in a different universe adjacent to his own. He could pretend that nothing existed outside this little world, and that he would return to it seamlessly when the time came.

But the article had distorted all of that. It had dragged him painfully back to reality- a reality where it took weeks for someone to even realize he wasn’t there. 

He felt Tom sit beside him instead of saw it, heard him shuffle into a seated position. He tucked his feet under his knees, crossed his ankles, curled his hands over his knees. It should have looked awkward- he was so tall and lanky, how could it look anything but? Yet he seemed entirely content, natural. Ever at ease in himself where Harry struggled to look comfortable in what little space he occupied. 

“You said it yourself, the Dursleys probably hid it,” Tom said. He was playing the Devil’s advocate, Harry knew. Though whether he was doing it to provoke Harry, or simply to help him think from a different perspective he didn’t know. He wished for just once, Tom would stop speaking in riddles and half-truths. 

He sighed, burying his head in the crook of his elbow. “You win, Tom.”

A moment passed, stretching between them like an eternity. “Pardon?” Tom finally prompted.

“You win. You’re right, okay? Yeah, my home life is awful and I’m sure my aunt and uncle were more bothered to have their home searched through than the fact that I’ve been gone. And Dumbledore doesn’t care, and yeah you or Voldemort or Black all could have killed me by now and no one would have even known,” he spat, surprising himself with the malice in his words, the bitterness with which he spoke that sounded so unfamiliar. But there was a comfort in this unfamiliarity, as if finally acknowledging the truth he denied for so long had absolved him of the burden of justifying it. He didn’t have to make excuses for others, because he had accepted that none of them were good enough. None of them were good enough for letting a child go missing for so long. Even the writer of the article struggled to hide her condemnation, the Minister offering no comment. There was no excuse for it. 

“Still, if you wanted to go back, I can bring you back. You’ll have to face them eventually.”

“I know. But not right now,” he said, the words going unspoken. They got along just fine without him for five weeks, a few more wouldn’t hurt. It was incredibly vindictive, he knew, but he wasn’t feeling very charitable at the moment. “Besides, they’ll just be mad that I ran away on my own and wasted all their time.”

Tom shrugged. “They think Black took you against your will. No need to let them think otherwise.”

“It’s not that simple, Tom,” Harry muttered, knowing that the lie would only be stretched so far before the cracks begun to show. They would catch him in it, and what would they do then? What would Harry tell them about his summer? How differently might they look at him if he knew the truth?

‘Oh, don’t worry, I just spent it with an errant piece of Voldemort he seems to have misplaced. We didn’t kill anyone this summer though, so all set here then, yeah?’ he imagined himself saying, standing in the center of a court room. Dumbledore the judge, the Weasleys the jury. 

Who then would play the role of executioner?

Tom sighed, running a hand through his hair as if irritated by Harry’s sullen mood. “Stop thinking, won’t you? It’s harder to keep you and your guilt out when you’re in such a foul state,” he mumbled.

Harry bristled, cheeks flaming in indignation that his conflict was putting Tom at such an inconvenience. As if Tom had ever been anything but that for him. There was so much he wanted to say to him, all of it curling within him, lodging in his throat and suffocating him. He wondered if he could die from all the things left unsaid, if the unfamiliar burn of hatred and anger that warped within him- turned his blood to mercury, his bones to iron cages- could make him rot from the inside out. He was well acquainted with being impulsive, brash decisions acted out on the whim of a flitting emotion. Of anger and the humiliation of having been slighted. 

But this bubbling within him was entirely foreign and he all at once wanted to hurt the boy beside him. It was frightening, the way his fingers flexed on their own volition, as if readying to wrap around Tom’s neck. The way his veins thumped noisily below his skin, suddenly too loud. He clenched his jaw, as if doing so might stop him from slinging out the words that tried to crawl out. They were insects, crawling up his throat, prying through his lips. Shiny, luminescent shells of beetles crunching under his teeth as he fought against freeing them. 

He wanted to curse Tom- literally and figuratively. He wanted to blame him for all of this- but what was all of this? Was he mad at Tom for setting off this chain events, from throwing Harry of course all because of a silly little book? Or was he mad that Tom had been correct? That he had been mistreated and forgotten about? Angry that he had been perfectly content with what little he had in life until Tom made him want more? 

A thirst that would never be quenched now that it was realized. 

He was startled when he felt an arm settle over his shoulders, pulling him into Tom’s side. He stiffened at the touch, unsure of what to make of it. He hadn’t been this close- physically- to Tom since before he escaped the diary and their relationship had been much simpler. The gesture seemed almost perverse now, but even as he told himself to shirk away from his touch, he melted into it, the tension that had knotted his muscles and made his bones tremble evaporating. 

Just as quickly and easily as it had come, the anger and hatred and need to hurt had left at Tom’s touch. As though there was a part of Tom that Harry needed, a part that he yearned and sought for and didn’t even know he was looking for until he suddenly had it. 

He hated that he could loathe Tom so much, but still fall into his touch like nothing had passed between them. 

“Did you at least enjoy your summer with me?” 

Harry scoffed. “You’re a prat, Tom.”

All the other things he wanted to say forgotten, the bugs swallowed as he settled into Tom’s side.

-xXx-

He was filled with rage, a twisting rage that ignited him, burned him, turned into something hideous and foreign. He could hardly see, his vision quaking in his wrath, the world before him fuzzy and nebulous- the remembrance of a dream, the silhouettes of two people before him all he could see in the haze. And his scar was inflamed.

Could someone die from too much pain? How much agony could someone be subjected too before it all became too much? Before your senses shut down, your brain turning to a mush of collapsed synapses and gray matter? 

He wanted to reach out and cup his head, cradle it as if that might somehow abate the pain. But he couldn’t move- he wasn’t bound, and he didn’t feel the taut pull of restraints as he tried to break free. He was simply trapped within a nothingness, an insubstantial being. An observer. An observer to what?

He wanted to scream- and he thought he might have, a nonexistent mouth stretching wide and a nonexistent exhale accompanied with a sharp shout. But he did not hear it- all he could hear was the rush of blood in his head, a tidal wave that threatened to crash against him, toss his body against the jagged rocks of a cliff. An avalanche as a mountain trembled and shook and snow raced down its side.

And when the rushing sound softened, when his rage had reached a crescendo so great he was almost deafened, he heard a faint hissing sound. A high-pitched voice that chilled the boil of his blood, made him shake despite the heat and fire that was in him, around him. “Find him!” 

“My lord,” someone whimpered, put their plea was cut short.

“Find him! Bring him to me!” 

“We can use another in his place-”

“Crucio!”

The word- which sounded less like a word, more like the hiss of a serpent that curled inward, ready to pounce- brought with it screaming. Tortured, anguished cries that filled Harry, mingled with his own. His head felt like it would split in two from the pain and cacophony of noise. A noise that dragged on, hours, years, trapped within it. An entire lifetime ensnared within the screams. 

When it finally ended, his ears rang and it felt as if cloth had been swathed over his head. Everything sounded distant. Muffled. There was murmuring that he could not distinguish, a hissing voice- different from the one that commanded the others. A warning, an intruder.

“The muggle caretaker is outside the door-”

Heavy, dragging footfalls, the sound of a body being tossed to the floor. His silhouette was visible, growing steadier as Harry’s vision finally settled to the scene, anger sharpening in focus. He was an older man, curved and hunched over, graying hair.

“Avada Kedavra!”

Green light exploded before him, engulfing the room and filling Harry’s gaze. Blinding him. When it receded, the old man was lying prone before him, mouth wretched in a silent scream, eyes wide and glassy. Was it that quick? The light leaving them just like that? All the warmth and light taken in an instant, whisked away by those words and carried off in a wave of emerald?

“Nagini.”

Something was curling around him, sliding pass and down from where he sat, sliding along the floor. A snake, impossibly large, scales glistening gold and brown in the light. And then it lurched, jaw unhinging to wrap around the man’s head, fangs sinking into skin, tearing into flesh, muscle. Bones crunched, snapped like twigs as the serpent continued to slink forward, the man disappearing-

His stomach churned at the sight, and he tried to avert his gaze but he couldn’t. Again, he was that nothingness, unable to escape, unable to look away. His head throbbed, his body trembled and their was a distant screaming, an echo that hadn’t ceased.

“Find him. I will not start over.”

“How?”

“Crucio!”

Cries racketed in his head. His vision shook once more as anger consumed him. Blood coated the floor. Limbs twitched frantically, searching for help that would not come. Fangs severed deeper into flesh.

“HARRY!”

He awoke with a shout, eyes opening wide and flicking about him- still trapped in that between world, between waking and sleeping. Nightmares and daydreams. The screaming had ended, though the sound remained, buried deep into his subconscious. And the rage had left him, replaced with fear and panic as his chest rose and fell rapidly, hands trying to reach out for his wand. 

He was here. Voldemort. It had been Voldemort and he was trying to find him.

But his hands were bound, sheets entwined around him, and he flailed, trying to free himself. “Harry, stop!” a voice called, and there were hands on him, a firm pressure on his shoulder, pining him down. 

“No! I need- Voldemort. He’s angry. Wand. I need it. He wants to find me,” he spoke, the words choppy and hoarse, his throat sore from his screaming. He couldn’t think, the ache in his head still present, the ghost of the dream still vibrant in his mind. The crunch of bone, the tortured pleas. 

“Voldemort’s not here, just me. Just Tom,” the voice came again, and he felt someone tugging the sheets loose from under him, tossing them aside and he could finally move.

“Tom?” he asked, his gaze settling on the boy crouched beside him. His face was distorted, his vision still shrouded in a haze, tears and sweat obscuring the world from him. But he could see the curl of his hair- messier than usual, had he been sleeping before Harry woke him to his screams? His blue eyes were trained on him, a sharpness to them that seemed surreal when everything else melted together. 

But it was Tom, he recognized him just enough, and without thinking- perhaps it was the relief that sagged into him, or the need for something solid and real to remind him that he was no longer trapped in Voldemort’s head- he leaped forward, wrapping thin arms around Tom. Fingers twisted into his cotton shirt, head burying into his shoulder.

He sobbed openly, body shaking with each shuddering cry, and he couldn’t be bothered to care or be embarrassed. He cared only about the relief that it was over, that he was no longer forced to watch the men twitch in agony, watch the snake take on the daunting task of eating a man whole. It was different from the dream he had months ago, when he was the snake and could see nothing beside jerky movements, quick flashes of color. But watching the snake launch and bite down and sink itself down until less and less of the man became visible- it was a sort of torture he never wished to experience again. To be so helpless as others suffered, killed before him while he could do nothing but watch and hear every terrible sound-

A hand settled on his back, tightening the embrace. Another curled over the back of his head, fingers smoothing down strands of erratic hair. It was undeniably calming, a warmth blossoming from where his body connected to Tom’s. Just as Tom’s touch had quieted the rage he felt earlier that day, so too did it help abate the despair and fear he felt in that moment.

He knew he should have questioned why, certain that even touch deprivation couldn’t result in a response so immediate. But he didn’t care to, for once content with letting a little mystery slip by. All that mattered was that his heartbeat was beginning to slow, that his veins and capillaries no longer felt as if they would burst. That the sharp, stabbing pain in his scar had turned to a dull ache. 

His breathing became less ragged, and if he could close his eyes and focus on it, he could hear Tom’s own heart beat against him, a steady, calming staccato. 

Funny- it seemed to beat exactly in time with Harry’s own heart. 

-xXx-

“Can we go to the muggle village later today?” Harry asked, fingers burying in the dirt as he dug out the entirety of the plant- root and all- and began shaking away the excess dirt.

Tom reached a hand to steady his wrist, saying in a stern voice, “Stop that, you’ll damage it and ruin my potions. And why? We don’t need anything.” It was dangerous too, but he didn’t say that. Two weeks had passed since the Prophet ran the first of many articles chronicling Harry’s disappearance. Two weeks since Tom had awoken to the sound of screams and thrashing, to Argos practically breaking down his door in his attempt to get Harry help. Though he was more than confident in his wards- the fidelius charm only one of many layers guarding them from intrusion- he wouldn’t dare wander outside of them for anything other than an emergency. 

It was bad enough that Harry insisted on returning to school instead of staying with Tom. Though, he did have a point- no matter how wonderful a teacher Tom might be, Harry still wouldn’t be able to use his magic. And what point would that be if Harry couldn’t truly learn to defend himself? 

Harry shrugged, gingerly cleaning off the roots now. “I just want to stop in. Maybe get a new book to read. Besides, I’d like to say bye to Miss Woolton.”

Tom narrowed his eyes at him. “You just hope she’ll give you some more free biscuits and scones.”

“You ate just as much as I did!” Harry countered, his tone accusatory, lips pinched in a pout. 

Tom rolled his eyes, turning his own attention back to the plant as he carefully dug it from the ground. “No. I’ll send you some scones at school if they mean that much to you. It’s not safe to leave the wards.”

“It’s a muggle town, though. Not like it’s crawling with too many witches or wizards who will report me.”

“No,” Tom said again, his tone curt. Truthfully, the aurors weren’t the ones he was concerned with. They meant no real harm to Harry, even if he would spend the remaining days before school answering all sorts of questions, straining even Tom’s occlumency as he tried to keep the boy’s wards up between them. He would be safe at least, and Tom was confident he could disappear before they would even take notice of him- it’s not as if many even knew who Tom was, the memory of the Hogwarts student long gone. 

No, the aurors and Dumbledore were the least of his concern. Not when Voldemort had become enraged at the news of Harry’s disappearance. When he had sent the two men he had out to search for him. 

When he purchased the farmhouse, he had hoped that it would be far enough from where Voldemort might roam that their paths wouldn’t cross until he was ready. But how did one think differently from themselves? How did one make unpredictable moves across a chess board when the one they played against was themselves?

At least when Harry returned to school, he could relax a bit. His horcrux would be safe there- certainly not even Voldemort would be desperate enough to try something so risky while he was still so weak.

“What potion are you making anyway?” Harry asked, clearly trying his best to not sound disappointed.

“Draught of peace. I’ve got an order for it, so we’ll have to focus on it to make sure it’s perfect. Can’t make any foolish mistakes, and it’s very difficult to do,” he answered. It was a difficult potion, one that Harry wouldn’t even be expected to make unless he wished to get his NEWTs in potions. But despite his young age, he was bright, and so long as Tom kept an eye on him, he wasn’t too terribly worried about what sort of damage he would do.

He could hear Harry mumbling to himself, though it wasn’t anything against Tom. He was talking about the plant, the fluxweed, and the magical properties it had and which potions it was most suitable for. Committing to memory all the things Tom had taught him about potion making in the few short weeks. 

“What a good little student you-” the taunt died on his lips, smirk slipping from his face as Tom caught sight of something just off in the distance. Just outside his wards.

“Tom?” Harry asked, brows furrowed. He turned in the direction that Tom was looking, craning his neck. He gasped, jumping from where he knelt in the garden, his wand at his side. “That’s the man from my dreams! Wormtail.”

Everything happened too quickly after that, a succession of events where not one thing led to the other, as they all began at once. Argos rose from where he had been lounging at Harry’s side, snarling viciously and taking off at a run, dust picking up from where his paws kicked at the ground. And Harry was running too, skidding as he went down the slope of the hill, arms spread out on either side to keep him steady and making it look as if he might take off into flight at any moment. He was running after Argos, right towards Wormtail, the sound of barking booming through the air, dispersing in the open plot of land.

“Harry, stop!” Tom yelled as he went after them, his own wand raised. They were safe so long as they stayed within his wards, a task that Harry seemed to ignore, continuing his descent down to the plateau of land where Wormtail wandered, his wand raised. How had they even found this town? Tom had tried so hard to find something small and obscure, off the beaten path and as far from wizarding society as he could.

Had that been his mistake? Had it been too obvious a place to hide? Had he circled so much into trying to avoid Voldemort’s path that he sat right in it?

Argos was nearing the edge of the wards, the curved edge glistening if Tom looked at it from just the right angle, though Wormtail would see nothing. So long as the damned dog would. Stay. Put!

“Incarcerous!” He shouted, flicking his wrist in the direction of the mutt. A rope, appearing in mid-air, wound itself around all four legs, tightening until they were bound and Argos could run no longer, rolling to his side and squirming against the bindings. His barking had become snarls, deep, growling snarls not umlike the ones a rabid, wounded animal would make. And still, even as he was ensnared in the ropes, legs pinched in the center and his back forced into an awkward arch, he kept trying to move closer to Wormtail, trying to propel himself through the dirt with a thumping tail and quick, jerking movements. 

“Argos!” Harry called, changing his direction as he took a sharp turn to the right, crouching at the dog’s side. He was tugging at the ropes, trying to undo them even as they became tighter at his prodding. “Tom! Undo it! Now!” 

“No,” Tom said when he was close enough, his wand lowered, pointed at the dog. 

Harry threw himself over top it, turning his body into a shield, his own wand raised and aimed at Tom. “No! You can’t hurt him! He’s my friend!”

Tom came to an abrupt stop, eyes flicking over to the figure approaching the wards, the squat and ugly man raising his nose as if he thought he might sniff Harry out. He settled his gaze back to Harry, slowly raising his hands to show he did not intend to harm either of them. Yet- Black would certainly pay for stupidly trying to endanger Harry that way. Despite his appearance, he wasn’t a dog, and he should have known better than to try to leave the wards of a fidelius charm. 

“Harry,” Tom implored, trying to sound calm even as panic flooded him. Just a few feet, that’s all that stood between them and the wards. Just a few seconds late and Black would have exposed the lot of them. And for what? Revenge? He would have exposed Harry to a Death Eater all because of a past that had been buried and forgotten. Anger followed the panic, but he tried to bottle that up, knowing Harry wouldn’t respond well to that. “Harry, he can’t see or hear us. I promise you we are as safe as we can be so long as no one steps. Outside. That. Ward.”

He spoke to Harry, but his gaze flicked to Argos, the dog’s hackles raised to bare his teeth. “If so much as that mutt gets out, he’ll reveal us all.” Brown eyes widened in understanding, but he still continued to snarl, canine fangs poking out menacingly.

Harry turned to look behind him, at Wormtail. He was close enough now that Tom could see the thinning strands of blond hair a top his head, the beady eyes which never seemed to settle as he prowled around the land. He was wearing tattered and filthy clothing, corduroy pants that were torn at the hem, a grimy vest over a sweat and dirt stained oxford. Close enough that Tom could count the buttons.

“But he’s...” Harry started, wand shaking in his grasp. “He’s right there.”

He looked torn, like he didn’t quite believe that they were safe. Like it was impossible to be only feet from someone and still invisible. As if he hadn’t seen enough magic to understand this.

“Harry,” Tom started again. “I know you don’t trust me, but please, if I ever needed you to trust me, it would be in this moment. I promise you, nothing is going to get through. I won’t let anyone hurt you. But I need you to trust me.” 

Harry chewed his lips, looked back once more to Wormtail, who had thankfully started to turn in the opposite direction, walking towards the muggle village miles away. He lowered his wand, turning to Tom. “He works for him. How am I supposed to just let him go?” he asked, but it was not out of rebellion, not the tone of someone looking for a reason to obey what was told to them. It was the tone of someone who felt guilty, as if he was committing some sin by inaction. As if his self-preservation meant someone else would die.

‘Bloody Gryffindor,’ Tom thought.

“Go back to the house, Harry. Unless you’re prepared to kill him yourself, he’s just going to go back to Voldemort and bring him here.” That did it. If the boy was horrified at the prospect of letting a murderer wander away, it was nothing compared to the prospect of having to kill someone for their silence. 

Slowly, he rose to his feet, though he didn’t turn his back on Wormtail, walking backwards to Tom and in the direction of the house. When he was at Tom’s side, Tom settled a steadying hand on his shoulder. “Levicorpus,” he said as he pointed his wand at Argos’s still struggling form, lifting the dog up into the air. He carried him that way as the walked up the hill, watching in silence as Wormtail wandered further away from them, neither one of them wanting to lose sight of him. 

They did not leave the house for the rest of the day. Or the next. And Harry didn’t question it when Tom conjured up a second bed to fit into his own room, telling Harry that they would share a room until he left for school. 

Tom trusted his wards to keep them safe, but it didn’t help the anxiety he had felt at seeing Harry just steps away from Voldemort’s grasp. He would be thankful when Harry was finally back at school, and if Black tried to get himself killed afterwards Tom wouldn’t stand in his way. But he would be damned if he put Harry in danger again.

He needed to protect his horcrux, he told himself.

-xXx-

(September 1, the beginning of the school year)

Dumbledore stood against the pillar, looking out at the crowd around him. The crowd that moved like a sea around him, people barely paying him notice as they dragged suitcases behind them, chatted and laughed with their traveling companions. All the sounds echoed, ricocheting off the high ceilings of King’s Cross station, creating a bubble of noise. The screeching, metallic sound of someone speaking over an intercom cut through, but most ignored it, unable to discern the words from the tinny squeal. He could see the others in their assigned spots, an Auror by the ticket booth, Kingsley by the pillar marking the exit for another platform. All dressed as muggles, trying their best to hide in the crowd. 

“What makes you so certain Potter will even come here? I doubt a kidnapper would be so considerate to return him for school,” Snape drawled beside him, arms crossed over his chest.

Dumbledore did not answer. He wasn’t certain, not entirely. But there was a chance, however slim it was, Harry could arrive, and they weren’t going to miss the opportunity. They had exhausted all possible leads- Black seemed to have just disappeared after the summer ended, leaving not a single trace to where he might have gone off to. They had withheld the information of him being an animagus from the public, fearing that if he saw it printed in an article he would do something disastrous. Desperate. 

Best to keep their cards close to their chest. 

“We’ve warded the whole area- even outside of the station. The moment Harry walks through, it will recognize his magical signature. Be prepared in case he isn’t alone,” was all he said, clasping his hands in front of him and returning to his careful scrutiny of the crowds around him. 

-xXx-

Harry dragged his trunk off the bus, apologizing as Hedwig was tossed in her cage when he failed to see a ridge in the sidewalk. Receiving a none too pleasant glance from the driver before he closed the doors and drove off- he had initially refused to let Harry on with the owl, but after a great deal of pleading and even trying to muster up a sad story for exactly why he needed to keep the owl, the driver had relented. 

He paused as he stepped back, allowing others to pass him, searching through the crowd. Tom had promised to make sure Harry got to the train safely, but would do so from a distance. He supposed it made sense- Harry had been missing for the whole summer now, and anyone arriving with him in tow would surely be subjected to hours of questioning. And if they learned who exactly Tom Riddle was-

Well, it would all just get too complicated. Too messy. For both of them. He understood it, but he didn’t like it, the image of Wormtail standing before him still so concise. Like he had stepped right out of Harry’s nightmares to haunt him, to inhabit this world. He had always known that Voldemort was out there, somewhere, in some strange form; not quite dead, not alive. But passively knowing it was different from this feeling. This feeling of being hunted. 

He felt better knowing that Tom was somewhere, in a peculiar disguise that for some reason Harry couldn’t seem to commit to memory. When he was looking at Tom, he had no issue knowing it was him in disguise, but the moment he looked away all distinguishing features escaped his grasp. Had he been a blond? No, no- brunet. Or perhaps he was bald? It was a curious charm- a glamour, he had called it- but Harry wished there had been a way for Tom to conceal himself without changing his appearance. There was little comfort to be found in the face of a stranger.

That was a notion he preferred to keep tucked away for now. Forever, if he could manage. When, exactly, had he begun looking to Tom for comfort? When had he become the person to put him at ease, instead of the one who unsettled him? When did he begin looking for his face in the crowd- not out of fear or paranoia, but because it made him feel safer? Less alone?

It would be a lie to say that the summer had been unpleasant. In fact, he couldn’t much think of a summer that had been better than this one. He had whiled it away in the skies, on his broom and racing Hedwig. He would on occasion visit the muggle town, Miss Woolton always offering him some of her fresh baked biscuits- ‘a couple extra for your brother, too,’ she would say with a wink. He had celebrated his birthday even- nothing outrageous or even spectacular. But there had been a cake and Tom had even (grudgingly) agreed to fly with him for a bit, each racing to catch the snitch first. Harry always caught it- something he was better at than Tom. 

Even the parts he thought he would dread had actually been alright. Practicing occlumency, making potions- he was actually good at it when he didn’t have a teacher who would give him detention for breathing. And Tom didn’t just instruct him, he taught him about the potion and why it worked, how each ingredient contributed to the elixir. Which herbs played well together and why, which combinations to avoid. He doubted even Hermione knew the sort of stuff Tom taught him. 

But when had he crossed that line? The line from forced politeness, regarding Tom with the same level of care he would a blast-ended skrewt, to actually enjoying the time he spent with him? The easy companionship they had had before he left the diary. Had it been when he awoke, crying and screaming in agony and Tom had held him, letting him cling to him for an embarrassingly long time? Or was it when Tom had stopped him from attacking Wormtail, making good on his promises to keep him safe from Voldemort?

It was...confusing. It was the only word he could think to describe it. The constant shift in his relationship with Tom. But he couldn’t let himself settle in that comfort, no matter how easy Tom made it. He was certain that the moment he did, the boy would strike, like the monster he pretended not to be.

Was it pretending though? He had seen inside his head, if only for a few moments, some stolen glances in a past that he sure Tom did everything he could to bury. The orphanage hadn’t been a lie, like he thought, and Tom certainly didn’t seem monstrous then- just a young boy being dragged to a hospital, tears streaming down his face, all because he was different. Because he was like Harry. 

“Harry Potter,” a voice called, startling him from his thoughts and he came to an abrupt stop just as a heavy hand clapped down on his shoulder. Hedwig hooted loudly at having been jostled, her cage swinging in an arc at Harry’s aborted step, but he ignored her, turning to look at the man standing uncomfortably close to him, holding him in place. 

The man met his gaze, one eye- a glass eye- spinning rapidly in its socket, a band holding it in place that wrapped around his head. His face was carved with deep scars, white, messy seams that held the skin in place, a chunk missing from the tip of his nose. 

Harry dropped hold of his trunk, hands digging through his pockets for his wand- but the man had grabbed hold of his wrist- not painfully, but firm- and shook his head. “No need for that, come on, keep walking,” he said, grabbing hold of Harry’s abandoned trunk and dragging him towards the station, an ambling unsteadiness to his gait. “Alastor Moody, an auror for the Ministry,” he added as Harry tried to free himself from his grasp, gazing through the busy streets for Tom in his mysterious disguise. 

“How did you get here?” the man- Moody- asked, his hold on Harry’s wrist only tightening as he continued to try to pry himself free.

“The bus,” Harry spat back, not bothering to hide the surliness. Tom had said the station would be crawling with Aurors, it was the entire reason he wouldn’t escort Harry himself to the platform. But he had barely made it ten steps away from the bus stop before being manhandled. He wasn’t prepared for this just yet. 

“Did you come alone?” Moody asked, choosing to ignore Harry’s tone. 

He hissed, the familiar twinge in his eye flaring back to life. He bowed his head, gritting his teeth in pain, his eye crumpling into a squint.

Moody grumbled, shoulders stiffening as if becoming more alert. “That’s a no, then.”

“Harry!” another voice called, and he twisted in the direction of it, watching as Arthur Weasley came from the opposite side of the street, looking odd in some muggles which didn’t match in the slightest: green plaid trousers paired with a fluorescent purple oxford that might have been intended for a female, the buttons swapped for the wrong side. 

“Mr. Weasley,” he called out in turn, grateful for the familiar face, even if it did remind him too much of Ginny. Even if it did remind him of all the reasons he hated Tom in the first place. 

“Harry, are you alright?” Mr. Weasley asked when he approached, but Harry didn’t have a chance, pulled into a tight hug. It was not comforting, not the way Tom’s had been. It just made it worse, his stomach twisting into knots, the words sitting on his tongue. ‘I’m the reason your daughter is dead. I don’t deserve your concern.’

He felt filthy, like he might cry from the weight of the guilt and the blood on his hands. He almost confessed, the words slipping from his lips before he could stop it. But he didn’t get too far before his eye erupted in pain, and he pushed away from the embrace, a hand curling over his eye.

“Harry-” Mr. Weasley said, but Moody interrupted, his tone brusque. 

“Black’s here, let’s get him inside to Dumbledore.” They were pulling him then, each flanking either side of him, Mr. Weasley carrying Hedwig’s cage as Harry continued to clamp his palm over his eye, fearing that it might pop out from all the pressure. 

He didn’t want to see Dumbledore, though. He had hoped against all logic and reasoning that the whole matter of his disappearance would be blown over. He had hoped that they would see he was alright and send him off with a pat to board the train. 

Would he even get to board the train? Or would they withhold him from school until he told them everything? Until he found a way to tell them about Tom and Ginny? And even then, what? Would they send him to Azkaban? 

Another auror flocked to their side, one with short, spiky hair the color of bubblegum. She followed just behind Harry, close enough that if she tripped she would stab him with the wand she held at her side, hidden behind the folds of her coat. 

He was beginning to feel more and more like a prisoner, the closer they came to the station.

They entered through the large doors, spilling out in the center of the station, ticket booths on either side of them, an information desk in the middle of it all, the crowd parting around it. He could see them now- all the aurors. They were the only ones not moving, running to departing trains or purchasing their tickets. They stood pressed against the columns, arms folded over their chests as they looked over the sea of the people, a stern look on their face. Most didn’t move from their position, like statues keeping guard, but some did step down, threading through the crowd to approach the small group that was forming around Harry.

It felt like an ambush. 

“Did Black drop him off?” a man with sandy hair that brushed over hazel eyes, thin scars marring his face asked. He looked at Harry as he said this, the attention making the young boy shift in discomfort.

“Tongue-tying curse, keeps touching his eye in pain, but I think so,” Moody answered. Harry didn’t feel the need to correct him.

‘Let them think what they want,’ he thought, recalling Tom’s opinions on the matter. 

The man shook his head. “It just doesn’t make sense though. Why let him go back to school? Why take him at all?”

Harry felt himself bristle, irritated by the way they spoke of him, as if he wasn’t even in the same room. Or was a child that couldn’t understand what they were saying, didn’t know that they were speaking so openly in front of him. ‘I’m right here,’ he thought with bitterness.

Arthur gave him a curious look. “Of course, Harry. Sorry, we don’t mean to talk about you like this,” he said, smiling sadly, a bit bashfully.

Did he say that out loud?

“Er...it’s alright,” he mumbled, cheeks warming that he had snapped and hadn’t even realized he had spoken it. But it was forgotten, the group coming to a stop as Dumbledore and Snape came to gather around him, a circle with him at the center.

Was this the court he had imagined? The judge before him, the jury surrounding him? 

“Thank heavens, Harry,” Dumbledore began, placing both hands on Harry’s shoulders and squeezing them. He didn’t have to lean forward, tilted at the hip like he once did, so much had Harry grown. There was only a few inches between them now, and he never thought the man had looked smaller, never looked so tired, eyes framed with large, purple bags.

Had Harry done that?

“I’m so glad to see you’re alright. You are alright aren’t you?” he asked, voice warm with concern.

“Fine,” he mumbled in response, feeling the same anger from before, the one that had only been quieted when Tom slung his arm around him. ‘I could have killed you by now,’ Tom’s voice came back to him, unbidden.

Dumbledore gave him a dubious look from over his half-moon spectacles, lips pinched before saying, “Harry, we have some questions for you, but here isn’t really the place for it. We’re going to go somewhere-”

“I have to get to school,” Harry interrupted, genuine panic filling him. He recalled, with startling clarity, the way Tom had been dragged away, little feet kicking the air, scuffing the floor in a tantrum. 

Dumbledore’s eyes softened, a curious glint to them. When he spoke next, it was slowly, each word chosen carefully. “We’ll bring you to school, a little late is all. We just have some questions.”

He felt his skin begin to itch, crawl over his bones and he started to bounce on the balls of his feet, a manic energy rocketing through him. “You can ask them here. I don’t want to go anywhere else.”

“You’re not in any trouble, Harry. You understand that, don’t you? This isn’t about you, we just need you to tell us about what happened over the summer,” Arthur said, his voice caring. Fatherly.

Harry gasped in pain, pinching his eyes closed as he dug his nails so sharply into his palm he formed crescent shaped imprints. He gritted his teeth, shaking his head as he said, “I can’t tell you about it.” He was all at once- in a perverse, twisted way- thankful that Tom had cursed him the way he had (tongue tying curse, Moody had called it). It absolved him of the responsibility of telling the truth, an easy way out for him. No matter what, he couldn’t be implicated in any of it, because he was cursed to keep quiet.

“Can you undo it? The curse?” someone asked.

It was Moody who responded. “Only the caster can.”

“Would veritaserum override it?” 

“No. Legilimency however-”

Harry looked up, squinting through the pain in his eye, the lights that suddenly seemed too bright. No. They couldn’t use legilimency. He was nowhere near strong enough at occlumency, and he couldn’t let them see the truth.

Couldn’t bare to let them know the truth.

Dumbledore frowned, eyes finally lifting from Harry’s face to meet Moody’s. “I can’t.” The words were soft, so soft Harry wasn’t sure he had heard them. But he did, and he tried to not show his relief. He didn’t understand it- surely, Dumbledore was more than capable of breaking the meager barriers Harry could manage- but was thankful for it all the same. 

But that meant-

“You’ve been trying to read my thoughts?” 

He didn’t realized he said it until all eyes turned to him, brows raised at the venom that was so unfamiliar in Harry’s words. 

Dumbledore considered him for a moment. “Harry-”

“How many times have you tried to read them, then? Have you never been able to get in or only recently?” he asked, the anger shifting, morphing into something else. Humiliation at what Dumbledore might have seen. All the private and intimate thoughts he had not once given him permission to view. Betrayal that Dumbledore had done so anyway. “What have you seen?” The words made him feel small, made him seem small. 

“I’ve only ever done it once or twice, when I thought you were in trouble-”

“What have you seen?” he asked, more forceful, the despair that had saturated his tone almost gone again, his emotions flipping faster than he could control them. 

Dumbledore hesitated in his response. “Just some moments from school Some childhood memories. Nothing for you to be embarrassed of-”

With that, a seal had been broken. The insects crawling up from his belly, millions of legs skittering up his throat as they finally fell free. Little venomous spiders, ugly beetles, an unstoppable stampede of unspoken words. He hardly recognized himself as he spoke.

“Oh, that’s all then? Just some childhood memories, yeah? Which ones? Anything good? Did you see the time I had to walk home from primary, and the Dursleys locked me outside? It was winter then, if that jogs your memory. Or what about all the times I didn’t get to eat, sometimes for almost a week at the time? All the times I was locked in the cupboard? They used to lock it every night when I was younger, because I had nightmares and tried to crawl in bed with them. It was easier for them to lock me in than comfort me. Did you see any of those?” 

He was shaking, jaw clenched so tightly he thought the bone might shatter into a million little fragments. Dumbledore looked as if he was going to speak, but Harry continued, the bugs and insects falling from his lips, unhindered. “I’ve had a couple of broken bones- did you see the real reason I had them, or the reason I was told to give the doctors and my teachers? Speaking of doctors, they always told me I was underweight. That I needed to eat more. Not as if the Dursleys cared enough to follow doctor’s orders. So which did you see? Which one of these childhood memories shouldn’t I be embarrassed of?”

There was an indiscernible expression on Dumbledore’s face, one that might have made Harry smile smugly if not for the mounting anger. 

“I’ve spoken to your aunt and uncle, and I don’t have the words to express just how truly sorry I am for the life they gave you-”

“That wasn’t my question. What did you see? Did you see any of that? Even just one?” His gaze was challenging, green eyes hardened, narrowed as he inclined his chin. The silence that followed was as damning as a confession. 

Harry swallowed thickly, feeling his bravado waver. Once more, Tom’s words came back to him. ‘I care because Dumbledore clearly doesn’t.’ Harry grabbed his trunk which had been deposited by Moody, ripped Hedwig’s cage from Mr. Weasley’s hands as he stepped aside. No one made to stop him, astonished and pitying eyes following his movements. He didn’t want their pity, though. He never wanted pity. 

“I was offered a home for the summer, away from all of that. And I took it,” he answered, taking a few more steps back, in the direction to where he knew Platform 9 ¾ would be. “And now, I want to go back to school.”

“Harry,” Dumbledore called, just as he had turned his back to him. He hesitated a moment, considering just walking away. But something in his voice wore down at his resolve, a chisel that hit against the walls he tried to build. He turned, raising a brow. “I never saw any of those memories. I knew your aunt and uncle weren’t the kindest, but I didn’t think...” He broke off, searching for the words to say. As if any of them could erase the moment that had transpired. Could make the bugs crawl back into his mouth. “I’m sorry,” he finally said, looking worn. Rueful. “I am truly sorry that I didn’t think to look more closely. But Sirius Black is not the solace he’s made himself to be. He can’t be trusted.”

“Sirius Black did more for me than anyone else,” Harry sneered, knowing it was a lie but not bothering to talk around the truth anymore. He just wanted to board the train, to leave all of this moment behind and return to what little normalcy he had.

He turned back and left for the platform. And this time, no one stopped him.

-xXx-

“Should someone...follow him?” Arthur asked, the first one to speak. Harry was quickly disappearing, lost in the rush of others as the crowd enveloped him. “Just to make sure he gets to the train safe, at least?”

“No,” Moody answered, his voice like gravel, rough and worn. “There are aurors all the way down to the platform, and on it itself. They’ll make sure he gets there alright. They’ll send word to me when he does. We’ll give him some time to cool down, get settled in school before we try speaking to him again. Whatever happened, it’s gotten him all sorts of twisted. The Headmistress knows to keep an eye out for a dog. He’ll be fine.”

“Then we should try to find Black. You said he’s here, right?” Tonks said, a frantic quality to her as she looked around. As if Black might appear behind them, leap from the swarms of people that meandered through the station. 

Dumbledore sighed, raising a hand to rub at the space between his eyes. “Black wasn’t the one who took Harry.”

“What?” they said in unison, Moody shaking his head in agreement with the older wizard.

“What do you mean? He said it himself?” Lupin hissed, making a gesture to the direction Harry had run off in.

“Exactly,” Moody said, turning to look at Lupin as his glass eye spun rapidly around, as if it might discover the person who truly was responsible. “He said it himself. Something that the tongue-tying curse specifically prevents. Black didn’t take him.”

Tonks was shaking her head, crossing her arms over her chest only to let them slip back at her side, then grasp her hips. “No. No. It has to be Black. Who...who else would do it? Most of the former Death Eaters are locked up. And even then, I can’t see Harry just making friends with You-Know-Who’s followers. Black at least made sense. He was friends with his parents, escaped at the time this all started.”

“Did he?” Moody prompted, rubbing his chin in thought. “We think it started around then. But maybe it started earlier. Or later, even. It’s not exactly as if it would have taken a lot of sway to get Harry to trust him. If you were him, where would you rather spend the summer?”

A moment of quiet between them, disrupted only by the shuffle of a new crowd arriving, the brass voice booming over the intercom. Lupin was the first to speak, a measured quality to his voice that suggested he was struggling to remain leveled. “Did you mean it? When you told Harry you didn’t know? Or were you just lying to get Harry to trust you again?” He squared his body so that he was more appropriately facing Dumbledore, jaw clenched and fists tighten at his side. If there was something hard in his tone, no one mentioned it.

Dumbledore inhaled slowly, shaking his head. “I wasn’t lying, Remus. I knew Petunia had been estranged from Lily, but I didn’t think she would subject Harry to such cruelty. Arabella never saw any of that, though she did express that there was some contempt for him. But we never thought it went beyond that. If I had expected there was abuse, I assure you I would have stepped in.” He paused, swallowing a lump that sat at the bottom of his throat, suffocating him. He had stepped in, once. Years ago, shortly after the deaths of Lily and James Potter. Harry had been surrendered to an orphanage, despite the letter that he had left for Petunia. Despite telling her that she was the only safe place for her nephew, the blood she shared with Lily keeping Harry safe. He had made them take him back.

Because he wanted Harry to be safe.

If he had known what would happen, if he had thought to watch a little more closely, he never would have left Harry there. He thought he would be safe.

He thought Petunia had loved her sister, once. That she might learn to love Harry too. 

“I’ve failed him, Remus. Nothing I say or do can make up for that. I’m sorry. I tried to find the safest place for Harry, and in doing so, I’ve placed him in far greater danger,” he admitted.

Lupin sighed, his shoulders slipping as he ran a hand down his face. He looked tired. Worn- older than his true age. “He’s safe now, at least. That’s what matters,” he muttered. There were no platitudes, nothing to abate Dumbledore of his guilt. No one mentioned that either.

“So we’re certain it’s not Black,” Snape said, a tinge of poison to his words. “That leaves us with no leads, no clues and a teenager who is physically unable to tell us a thing? Excellent.” 

The sarcasm and bitterness was evident, but Dumbledore paid it no mind. His focus fell on Moody, who had turned away from the group, eyes following someone as they left for the exit at a brisk pace. Even his glass eye had stilled.

He looked to the man Moody studied so closely, but there was nothing of note. Long blond hair that curled around his jaw, a slightly crooked and long nose, stubble covering his chin. “Something the matter, Alastor?” he asked, startling Moody from whatever had transfixed him.

He hesitated, then shook his head, “No, I...there was someone I thought...” he looked back to the crowd, trying to find the man once more. But he was gone. “In the right light, I thought I saw the shimmer of a glamour.”

“A glamour? What did he look like?” Arthur asked, voice high on alert as he twisted frantically, fingers gripping the wand that he hid in his sleeve. He rose a hand, signaling to one of the aurors against the pillars. Black might not have taken Harry, but someone did. Someone who had just wandered pass them.

“I...don’t remember?” The uncertainty sounded foreign to the auror, and Dumbledore opened his mouth the describe the appearance, having been the only other one to see the man.

But it was gone, the memory slipping from his mind like it had never been. Was it cropped auburn hair? No, no...a mass of curls? Dark skin? Pale skin? 

He struggled for the memory, searched for the features he knew he had seen but had somehow forgotten. It was gone, just like the man.

Like a ghost.

-xXx-

When Tom arrived home, it was to a farmhouse that had seemed too quiet. He could hear Argos- Sirius- barking from where he was locked away in what had been Harry’s room, throwing his body up against the door. He would grow tired soon, and when the fight finally left him, Tom would reward his cooperation with a chat. A proper chat- wizard to wizard instead of wizard to canine. 

He wouldn’t release him, just temporarily undo the curse that trapped him in that form. Just so they could talk. He wasn’t even sure what he would do with him, in the end of it all, having given his fate little thought. Harry was painfully attached to the mutt, and had even threatened Tom to keep him safe while he went to school. Killing him would only undo the progress, the trust that Harry had begun to place back into him.

He smiled as he thought back to the summer, Harry walking around him the first few weeks. Only arriving in the kitchen for food when he was certain Tom had left, roaming the perimeters and corners of the home as if doing so somehow kept him safer. As if the shadows might obscure him from sight. 

It was a true delight, watching it all unfurl. How Harry shifted from only sitting with him for an hour a day to study his occlumency, jumping at the slightest provocation, to sitting beside Tom as they made potions together, doing all of his prep work and listening earnestly as Tom added them in the correct order. Stirred it clockwise. To Harry practically always at his side, eating meals with him. Gardening. He even tried- with only one success- to get Tom on a broom and play some Quidditch with him.

In just a few weeks he had become pliant, trusting Tom slowly. So slowly, he doubted he was even aware of it. It was sad, really. Not in a pathetic way, but in a genuine manner that Tom knew to be sympathy even if he had never experienced it before. He had heard the word before, knew what it meant and how to emulate it. But it had always been a ruse, one that never went beyond kind eyes and soft words.

So what about Harry had stoked the ashes of a flame he thought long extinguished? Perhaps it was the connection, the link between them that bound their souls together that made him saddened by how easy it was to earn his trust. How sad it was that Tom fulfilled this role Harry needed so desperately that he fell into it seamlessly. 

Yes, the connection had to have been it. It was the reason why Harry had sought his embrace the night he awoke, his tumultuous thoughts quieted as they came together. Two slivers of something that felt whole in the other’s presence. A part of Harry’s soul belonged to him- the part of him that trapped onto Harry, feeding from him like a parasite- and it was calming to have something that was his so close to him once more.

The calm was gone now, Harry’s absence in the home like a storm that loomed overhead, black clouds rolling above him. His nerves were frayed, an anxious energy within him that he hadn’t felt in a long time. Not since he was trapped in the diary. But it was better this way- Harry was safer at the school, where Voldemort couldn’t touch him. Where his magic could grow and he could learn. Black was still the target he needed him to be and no one would press Harry too hard about his summer, knowing the limits of a tongue-tying curse. 

Telling himself this did nothing to ease his nerves, however. It had been so nice to have a part of a soul back with him, he almost regretted splitting it in the first place.

Almost.

The thought spurned him then, and with renewed purpose he wandered into his office- the one hidden in a charmed closet in the potion laboratory. It wasn’t anything grand, just a small desk and chair, some oil lamps and a cramped bookcase with all the tomes he knew Harry would be horrified with if he stumbled on them. It was just a small carving he had made for himself. A place to keep the two halves of his duality separate.

He had put off most of his research with Harry around. He had other priorities, and couldn’t afford for the young boy to get suspicious. But he was gone now, and he could finally return to it.

But where to begin? The notes he had scribbled in his journal? The books he had marked? 

His eyes fell on the untitled one fitted on the top shelf. Slim and black. He reached out before he even knew he was, holding the diary that had started this all for the first time since stashing it away. It was damaged, the pages caking together with dried blood which colored them maroon. The cover was crisp and made a crinkling sound as he pulled it back. His name, imprinted on the bottom in gold lettering. TM Riddle. 

He hadn’t even so much as looked at it, handling it as little as he could after making off with it from the Chamber, leaving behind the corpse of the girl and Harry to find his way back to the school, still in a daze from the possession. 

He supposed he’d have to study it at some point, begrudgingly admitting it was necessary for his research. Even if touching it filled him with dread, reminded him of the claustrophobia that clawed at him. Of the sepia toned world that was just as dead and inactive as he was, a faded, unrefined version of the things he could not have. Reminded him that he wasn’t alive, not really. Just trapped between two horrifying states of being. 

He had never been meant to be sealed within, it was never his intention. And holding the diary only reminded him of the decades spent in its pages. Trapped, before Harry had helped him escape. 

He was grateful for that. Another emotion that was new and unfamiliar to him.

He sat down in his chair, opening the diary on the desk before him. He had to hold it p[en with his palm, flattening it as it fought to remain shut. And then he simply stared. Stared until the words appeared.

‘Is anyone there?’ came the frantic, sloppy writing. Desperate was the word that came to mind. He could imagine a hand shaking too much, unable to steady. Pressing so hard into the parchment that it left a reminder of the words. ‘Please, help me. I just want to go home.’

He slammed the diary shut, quieting Ginny Weasley once more.

Another day, he told himself, sliding the diary back onto the shelf.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dat Cliffhanger tho.
> 
> Harry’s got it rough. Puberty and all those hormones and harboring a piece of soul from a dangerous, monstrous dark wizard? Being a teenage is hard enough, jeez.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed! A huge thanks to everyone who has taken the time to write a comment! Next up: Harry finds comfort in familiar faces, the schools and the tournament are introduced and Harry finally has a little bit of a heart to heart with someone who’s not a murderous psychopath. Aww.

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on tumblr: reneehartblog.


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